Letters To My Mother Read online

  “Think what you’re missing – you could be studying scripture this very minute instead of going to hell with me.”

  I wrinkled my nose at him.

  “Were you ever late?”

  “Only once. My friend Norma and I went to see War and Peace a week ago and the film lasted longer than we expected. We got back a couple of minutes past eleven, and the way they carried on you would’ve thought we were attending an orgy. Norma’s so disgusted she’s moving out after Christmas. To make matters worse, the movie wasn’t even good.”

  “Have you read the book?”

  “Three times. That’s why I know how bad the movie was. The director had an impossible job, though. You can’t make a movie out of a work like War and Peace; the book’s too vast. Tolstoy is my favorite novelist. Have you ever read War and Peace or Anna Karenina?

  “I read War and Peace in German, years ago. I remember Tolstoy’s ideas of predestination in history better than I do the body of the novel, though.”

  “Do you remember where Natasha and Nicholas go wolf hunting with Uncle – I think that’s my favorite part – or when they dress up as mummers? Every time I read War and Peace I discover something new, or a scene I passed over before takes on a new meaning, like the chapter about Prince Andrew and the oak tree. Do you remember it?”

  “Not after all these years. Tell me.”

  “Well, Prince Andrew is driving through a forest of birches in the springtime and he comes across an ancient oak tree. All the other tress are bursting with new growth, but this one oak is standing among the birches, grim and misshapen, and it seems to Prince Andrew the tree is like himself, disillusioned and despairing of the future. A few months later, after he’s met Natasha and fallen in love, Prince Andrew is passing again through the same forest and he has difficulty finding the tree because now it’s covered with a canopy of green leaves. When he finally recognizes the oak, Andrew’s overcome with joy because he realizes that during the spring both he and the tree have been reborn. Oh, David, it’s so beautiful! Just remembering this part gives me goose bumps.”

  David was studying me quizzically with a slight smile on his face.

  “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

  “Listening to you reminds me of a conversation I overheard a couple of days ago between two girls about your age. One of them was telling the other that she’s been to Europe and Niagara Falls, and next year she’s contemplating – that was the word she used – contemplating - a trip to South America. This girl was worrying where she can go on her honeymoon since by the time she’s married she will have seen everything.” David laughed. “Isn’t that pathetic? Barely out of high school and already suffering from Weltschmerz.”

  “What’s Weltschmerz?”

  “World weariness. I love your enthusiasm, Kate. Promise me you won’t change.”

  The rain was over when we reached Blaine Hall, and in places the clouds had parted to reveal a sprinkling of stars. As I got out of the car, I fixed my eyes on the brightest and recited:

  Star light, star bright

  First star I see tonight

  I wish I may, I wish I might

  Have this wish I wish tonight.

  I shut my eyes and wished silently that David and I might be happy.

  “What did you wish for?”

  “I can’t tell you or my wish won’t come true.”

  “Do planets count? That’s Venus, you know.”

  “Don’t be so technical.”

  We stopped near the door and looked at each other. There was an awkward silence.

  “Have you forgiven me?”

  “There isn’t anything to forgive.”

  David drew me aside into the shadows and put his arms around me. “Kate, I’m so very fond of you. I don’t want to hurt you.” He leaned over, kissed me on the forehead, and said goodnight.

  Chapter 6

  Blaine Hall, Room B102

  University of Washington, Seattle

  Sept. 27, 1956

  Dear Mother and Daddy,

  I’m sorry to hear Daddy’s being transferred to California; at least

  we’ll be able to celebrate Christmas together one more time in Utah.

  Is it ok if I stay at U.W. until graduation? I know you have to pay

  out-of-state tuition here and it would be cheaper for me to attend

  U.C. Berkeley, but I’ve put down roots in Seattle and would be sad

  to leave.

  Tomorrow I’m going to an Andrés Segovia concert with my

  friend Frank …

  I spent the three days before the concert in a whirlwind of sewing, rushing to complete by Friday evening an outfit I had barely started the previous week. The dress was a sleeveless sheath of black linen with a long-sleeved black lace top, one of those designs the fashion magazines tout for their versatility, picturing the sheath with a demure white blouse for daytime and the lace top for evening. No such mundane considerations had dictated my choice; I’d bought the fabric and pattern weeks before because they were irresistibly romantic, without the slightest prospect of ever wearing anything so elegant.

  "The Sweet Potato in Polynesia" lay forgotten on my desk, and even David’s typing received less than its usual attention as I dashed from the cranky sewing machines on the fourth floor to the ironing board on the first, and back again. Norma marked the hem for me late Thursday evening, and by midnight the ensemble was ready.

  When I delivered David’s typing on Friday afternoon, I was surprised to find he had company. Seated facing him – in my chair – was a slender man with a jaundiced complexion. He had straight, black hair, worn plastered against his head, and round, thick horn-rimmed glasses which gave his face an owlish expression. Dr. Jacobs – I recognized him from Frank’s description – turned slowly in my direction, inhaled languidly through a cigarette holder and regarded me impassively.

  “Excuse me a moment, will you, Irving?” David rose and went to his filing cabinet. He took out some papers and handed them to me as we walked to the door. “I have only a small batch for you today; I’ve been rather busy this week.” He winked.

  David looked at me, mouthed “seven-thirty” and raised his eyebrows. I nodded and glanced back at Dr. Jacobs. He was blowing smoke rings.

  Frank caught up with me as I entered the elevator.

  “I just saw your Dr. Jacobs in David’s office, or at least I think it was he. Is his name Irving?”

  “So it’s David now is it”?

  I didn’t reply.

  “That’s Dr. Jacobs. Isn’t he just how I described him?”

  “Identical. I recognized him at once. Ugh! The man’s positively reptilian.” I tried to picture Dr. Jacobs and Iris in bed together, but couldn’t conjure up the image. Frank accompanied me downstairs and walked with me to the door.

  “David tells me he’s giving you sailing lessons.”

  “That’s right.” I braced my self for the inevitable lecture.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings the other night. To tell the truth I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “For what?” I asked dubiously.

  “For the change in David. I can’t think of another reason. He’s a lot more patient this quarter, more approachable. You probably don’t know this side of him, but he can be pretty testy. Everything’s so easy for him. He can’t understand how it is with us mere mortals.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who’s changed. Maybe you know what he’s expecting of you and you’re working harder this year.”

  “It’s not just me; everyone’s noticed. You know what? I was passing by David’s office the other day and he had the radio going full-blast like he always does, but he wasn’t playing his usual long-hair stuff. He was listening to popular music. I could hardly believe my ears!” Frank smiled at me with the air of a complicit Sherlock Holmes.

  We chatted for a few minutes and I said goodbye, leaving Frank standing at the door with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his lab coat. “
I hope you enjoy the concert tonight,” he shouted after me.

  When I got back to the residence hall it was four o’clock, three and a half hours before David would be picking me up. I tried to take a nap, but couldn’t sleep, so I gave the dress a final pressing and took a shower, instead. After a hurried dinner, I settled down to the serious business of getting ready. I tuned my transistor radio to the one station it received, propped the radio on the dresser, and spread out my cosmetics, like an artist arranging his palette. First came the lipsticks, with their seductive names – Bora Bora red, Roses-in-the-snow, mauve ice – then the eye-shadows, foundation, an assortment of blushers and, finally a miscellany of mascara, eyeliners and eyebrow pencils. When I’d finished applying the makeup, I surveyed the results from as many angles as possible in a two-dimensional mirror, and smiled at myself with satisfaction. I swirled and twisted my long hair at the back of my head and pinned a red rose – Norma’s suggestion – into one of the curls.

  The hallway outside my door echoed with the excited voices of girls rushing back and forth getting ready for their dates. From the bathroom one girl shouted, “Hey, Barbara, would you get my slip; it’s laying on the chair.” A phone rang insistently, followed by the hurried clip-clop of slippers along the corridor as someone ran to answer the call. Down the hall a door opened and the melody "Ebb Tide" came pouring out. High heels clicked past my room, accompanied by the swish of taffeta.

  I looked at the clock. In a few minutes David was going to call, and I would go down to meet him, a little self-conscious, perhaps, and tingling with excitement. We would be stared at – delicious thought – for girls from Blaine Hall didn’t date men like David. I glanced at myself in the mirror one last time, at the reflection of the young woman in black lace with the red rose in her hair and her heart on her sleeve.

  When David phoned, I threw my coat over my arm and hurried out the door. A short flight of steps separated the hallway from the foyer; I paused on the landing to search for him among the crowd of younger men below and stood watching him for a moment, unobserved, as I had the night on Sturmvogel. David was wearing a dark gray suit, and he was so painfully handsome that a lump came to my throat. I remembered a fortune-telling game I played as a child and changed it to fit the circumstances: if he looks at me before I count to five he’s going to kiss me tonight. When I reached three, our eyes met, and he walked to the foot of the stairs with his arm outstretched to take my hand.

  “Kate … you’re … stunning!” In my excitement I forgot to notice if anyone was watching us; I saw only David.

  Segovia’s concert was overwhelming. The music transported me back to Spain, moving me so deeply I was almost unaware of David’s presence beside me. He too listened spellbound, with the intense concentration I had come to know so well. We left the theater arm-in-arm, neither of us wanting to be the first to speak, to break the spell of enchantment cast over us by the music.

  “What time do you have to be back at the residence hall?” David asked when we reached his car.

  “On Friday and Saturday nights I can stay out until one.”

  He opened the door and I pretended to search for something in the back seat.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Frank. I wouldn’t be surprised to find him hiding here. He knows you invited me to the concert. Are you sure it’s a good idea to tell him we’re going out together?”

  “I’ll grant you Frank has a nose problem, but as far as the concert’s concerned, he’s the one who showed me the ad in the newspaper; if it hadn’t been for him I would have missed it.” David frowned for a moment. “I may be mistaken, but I think Frank has enough respect for me to be discreet.” He glanced at his watch. “We still have two and a half hours before you need to be back. How about going somewhere for a drink? I had a hellish afternoon; I could use one.”

  I didn’t want to go to a bar, but I thought I’d sound childish if I disagreed. “That’s fine, but don’t forget I’m only nineteen.”

  “The way you’re dressed tonight no one’s going to question your age. Besides, just being with me adds ten years to you, at least.”

  We left the car and followed the concert crowd to a cocktail lounge several blocks away. It was stuffy inside, redolent with smoke and the stale smell of alcohol. I felt for David’s hand so I wouldn’t lose him in the dark, and he led us to a table illuminated by the faint glow of a single candle. A cocktail waitress in a short shirt approached us holding a pad and pencil.

  “I’ll have a Scotch and water,” David said, turning to me. The names of a dozen unappealing drinks came to my mind. Scotch and bourbon were too strong. Crème de menthe? Sickening. Cherry heering? Like cough medicine.

  I hesitated. “Kahlua, please.”

  “Straight or on the rocks?” I fancied the waitress was curling her lip in a sneer.

  “Straight.”

  When the waitress left, David put his hand on mine. “You don’t drink, do you, Kate?

  “Not really.”

  “I can change the order if you’d rather have something else. Would you prefer a coke or a seven-up?”

  “That’s all right. I’m fond of anything coffee flavored”.

  The waitress brought our drinks and a tray of hors d’oeuvres. I took a sip of the Kahlua and shuddered, for the drink was much stronger than I expected. I was ravenous, the smoke was giving me a headache, and I wished we’d gone somewhere else, anywhere but a bar. I watched David lift the glass to his lips and my body stiffened; the clink of ice cubes awakened painful memories, and I wondered if I was about to discover a new side of David, a side I wasn’t going to like.

  After a few minutes of desultory conversation, David looked at me with a quizzical expression on his face. “What’s the matter, Kate? Every time I take a sip of this drink you scowl at me as if you were Carrie Nation about to attack a bar with a hatchet.”

  “Nothing’s the matter; I’m just tired.”

  “No, it’s something else. You’ve had that expression on your face ever since we came in here. If you didn’t want to come to a bar, you should have told me when I asked you.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  David persisted. “Are you afraid I’ll make a drunken pass at you or pile up the car? Your father’s in the navy. Surely you’ve been around people who drink, haven’t you?”

  His remark stung me, and I lashed back, in anger. “Yes I certainly have been around people who drink; I’ve been around my mother when she was too drunk to stand up. I’m quite accustomed to people who drink, thank you.” I lowered my head and started to sob.

  David drew back as if I’d slapped him. “Kate,” he murmured, “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Talking about one’s besotted mother isn’t exactly a conversational gambit.”

  “Do you mind my asking … is your mother an alcoholic?”

  “Not in the conventional sense. I mean she doesn’t drink in the morning or go on binges or hide bottles in the linen closet or anything like that, but she starts drinking every night before dinner, ‘when the sun is over the yardarm,’ and keeps on until she passes out.”

  “How long has she been drinking excessively?”

  “Ever since I can remember. No, that’s not quite true; it’s only been in the last few years she’s continued drinking after dinner at home, though she’s always gotten drunk at parties. When she’s not drinking, Mother’s a charming and attractive woman, but after the first shot she’s a complete boor. She gets monotonous, self-centered and … she makes a fool of herself with men. I’ve overheard people making fun of her and … I just wanted to tear them apart. Her too. I’m so glad to be away from home. I can’t cope with her problems.”

  “Is that why you tensed up when I ordered the Scotch? Are you afraid I’ll change too, or disappoint you in some way?”

  “Scotch is what my mother drinks. I don’t think my reaction was conscious. Subconscious, maybe. I have so many awful memor
ies.”

  I finished the tray of hors d’oeuvres. David reached over to an unoccupied table and exchanged our empty tray for a full one.

  “Go on,” he said, “if you feel like telling me.”

  “You don’t want to hear about my mother; it’s too depressing.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Let’s exorcise whatever’s bedeviling you; go on.”

  I took another sip of Kahlua and continued. “We returned from Hawaii on January 7, 1948, my mother’s birthday, and some of my parents’ friends gave a combination farewell-birthday party for us the night we left. Mother got so drunk she couldn’t board the plane by herself; she couldn’t even stand up. I was so embarrassed I wanted to die, and when no one was watching I s-slapped her, hard. Then there was the time when we lived in New York City and my parents were giving a dinner party. I was in bed and heard a commotion in the kitchen and my father on the phone; he told me to stay in my room, but I got up and went into the kitchen anyway. My mother was lying on the floor in hysterics, covered with blood. She was trying to chop ice … she was holding the ice cubes … and ran the ice pick all the way through her left hand. I wouldn’t have believed anyone could lose so much blood and still live. I just stood beside Mother looking at her … I didn’t care if she lived or died … isn’t that terrible? My own mother and I didn’t feel any more emotion for her than if she’d been a drunk on the sidewalk. I didn’t feel anything at all. Then there’s the time a few years ago when we were living in Alexandria, Virginia, next door to an Air Force colonel, a psychiatrist. His wife and my mother became close friends; one day I came home from school early because I had an upset stomach and I heard Mother and the doctor … in the bedroom …” David picked up a napkin and dried my eyes.

  “Your father puts up with this?”

  “He’s in denial. He can’t cope with the situation, either.” I was trembling and my voice quivered. David looked at me gravely without saying a word.