CHAPTER 22
Maria
At McDonald’s this morning, I was chatting with a woman I knew from church when my young co-worker, Cordelia, came up behind me.
“Maria.” She sang my name in my ear, her Colombian accent so pretty, and there was something teasing in the sound. “You have a visitor,” she said.
“Where?” I asked, turning, and she nodded in the direction of the restaurant entrance. I think I knew who it was even before I saw him. Ross. He stood near the door, leaning on his cane, his face unsmiling. He nodded in a gentlemanly fashion when he saw me.
I tried to keep my face impassive in front of Cordelia.
“Thank you, dear,” I said to her.
“Is he your boyfriend?” she asked, grinning.
“No way, no how,” I said as I moved past her in Ross’s direction.
“Hello, Ross,” I said to him, my voice as neutral as I could make it. I really wanted to yell at him. I wanted to say Why are you bugging me, you old goat?
“I’d like to chat a bit,” he said. “I’ll get some lunch and then could you sit with me, please?” “I don’t think we have a thing in the world to chat about,” I said. I picked up a dirty tray from a nearby table, emptied the wrappers into the trash bin and set the tray on top of it. I was glad to have something to do so that I didn’t have to look at his face as I spoke.
“Please,” he said. “I drove all the way from Lakewood.”
Well, whose fault is that? I thought. But there was something so pathetic about him that I gave in. “All right,” I said. “You get off your feet and I’ll get you something to eat. What would you like?”
“I’ll get it myself,”he said, still the prideful man I’d once known.
“Fine,” I said. “You get what you want and I’ll sit with you for a while. I don’t have long, though,” I added. “I’m working, you know.”
He moved toward the line, which was not long, since we were in between the breakfast and lunch crowds.
I wished that more of the tables were dirty or that there were some toddlers to watch in the little play area, but there was not much to absorb my attention as I waited for Ross to get his food. I chatted with my acquaintance from Holy Trinity again until I saw Ross leave the counter with his tray in his hands, the cane over his arm. I thought of helping him, but in spite of my distaste for the man, I didn’t want to bruise his ego any more than it had already been bruised by age and circumstance.
When he reached a table in the corner, I walked over and sat down with him. I was keenly aware of my young fellow employees giggling about us behind the counter, probably imagining the budding of a romance between their grandmotherly co-worker and this old geezer.
“So,” I said, “did Ethan ever say anything to you about how that lunch went with Julie?”
“Just that it was nice to see her,” Ross said. He had not unwrapped his burger and seemed to have no intention of doing so, but he lifted his cup of coffee to his lips and took a sip.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked.
He didn’t seem to hear me. “Do you look back at any of your life with regret, Maria?” he asked.
I had to laugh. “Of course I do,” I said, then lowered my voice. “My relationship with you is one of my major regrets.”
He looked down quickly, fingering the napkin on his tray as though it suddenly needed his attention, and I thought I’d hurt him with my words. I felt a twinge of guilt for that. He was not an evil man. Maybe not a bad man at all, although I’d certainly voted against him when he ran for governor; it doesn’t pay to know too much about your politicians. I knew he’d gone on to do some very good things with his life. I knew he’d represented poor people in court. I knew he had strong values and had put his money where his mouth was on more than one occasion. As I sat there studying his too-thin face and the web of wrinkles around his pewter-gray eyes, I wondered if my regret had more to do with my own weakness than with anything he had done. I was not sure. When it came to Ross, I always ended up a little confused about my feelings.
“I don’t blame you for feeling regret, Maria,” he said, raising his eyes to me. “And I just want to offer you my deepest, deepest apology for ever having hurt you in any way. There are so many things I did wrong…” He looked out the window next to our table, where a couple of young boys dodged the cars in the parking lot on their skateboards. “To start with, I was a covert bigot, adopting my parents’ prejudices as my own. I let them rule me. Own me. I should have stayed with you, out in the open. I was a fool for that.”
Whew. Did he plan to go through his crimes against me one by one, waiting for my forgiveness after each apology? That I couldn’t bear. The truth was, his words were not enough. Nothing would be enough. And I did not regret his breaking up with me when I was so young and stupid; I only regretted that I’d allowed the relationship to continue in its clandestine form. I could see, though, that the only way to get rid of him now was to accept his apology. If that eased his emotional pain, I would just have to let that happen.
“All right,” I said. “Thank you for telling me that.”
He looked surprised, then smiled. “You are beautiful,” he said. “I mean…I’m not trying to be…to flirt.”
That’s good, I thought. An old man flirting was not a pretty sight.
“I mean,” he said, “you’re not only physically beautiful, but a beautiful person as well.You always were. And I…didn’t handle your kind nature very well, did I, and—”
“Ross, no more, please.” I felt the Egg McMuffin I’d had for breakfast begin to rise in my throat. I couldn’t do this. “We’re done with this conversation. I forgive you for any and all transgressions, imagined or real. Now please, just get on with your life. And I need to return to work.”
I stood up, feeling his eyes on me as I walked through the restaurant toward the rest rooms. I needed to escape, not only from him but from the inevitable questioning I would be facing from my co-workers. I splashed water on my face, swallowing hard over and over again to get that McMuffin back where it belonged, and when I emerged from the rest room, I saw that Ross had gone, leaving his tray with its untouched burger and nearly full coffee cup for me to clean up.
1939
I was never able to tell my parents the truth about my breakup with Ross. How could I tell them that Ross’s parents—our next-door neighbors—had forbidden his son to date me because I was the daughter of an Italian immigrant? How that would pain my mother! So I told them that he and I had decided we wanted to date others for a while to be sure we were right for each other. I knew my parents thought that was strange; we had seemed an ideal couple to them. On a couple of occasions, they caught me crying and questioned me, wanting to make sure the breakup was my idea and not just Ross’s. I assured them I had been in agreement with him.
I returned Ross’s ring to him, and when the other kids in our gang expressed surprise, we said that we’d simply realized we weren’t ready for a steady relationship. My girlfriends did not quite believe that excuse, and although I would usually confide just about anything to them, I could not tell them the truth. It made Ross look weak and shallow. Still in love with him, I wanted to protect his exalted image to our group of friends.
It was painful, though, to be with him in a crowd without touching him. I’d watch him talk to the other girls and wonder how each girl’s pedigree compared to mine. I’d watch his hands when he ran them through his hair or when he’d cup them around a cigarette as he lit it, and I’d ache with the yearning to have those hands on my body again.
One night at Jenkinson’s, I was dancing with another boy when Ross tapped him on the shoulder to cut in. Ross put his arm around my waist, his hand pressed tight against my back. The band was playing Glenn Miller’s “Moon Love.” Ross was a good dancer, but it was not the dance I was thinking about. It was the nearness of him, the familiar scent of his cologne that filled me with longing.
“Maria.” He pressed his lips close to my ear. “I can’t stand it any longer. I have to find a way to be with you.”
I closed my eyes and breathed him in. “But how?” I asked. I wanted to hear him say he would stand up to his father, that he would give up Princeton, give up college altogether if that’s what it took to have me. But I knew that was hardly a fair expectation, and I wanted the best for him. Giving up all he’d worked for would not be it.
“I am going to start dating Delores,” he said. “And I want you to start dating Fred.”
“What?” I leaned away from him, startled. “What do you—”
“Shh,” he said, pulling me close again. “Listen. We date them. Casually, of course. And we let our families and everyone know that we’re involved with them. But then, you and I will meet on the sly.”
“How?” I whispered.
“We’ll have to work that part out,” he said. “But first, I need to know if you’re willing. What do you say?”
I felt weak-kneed, I wanted him so much. This was a way I could have him. Maybe we could continue the ruse through his college years until he was free of his parents’ control. Then we could finally come out in the open. Be married. “Yes,” I said. “Yes.”
I took Fred by surprise when I started flirting with him and in no time at all, he’d asked me to the movies. Ross had no problem arranging a date with Delores; she’d had her eye on him for years. Ross made me promise that Fred and I would do no more than kiss, and I extracted the same promise from him with regard to Delores. Thus our cover was complete.
The first night we attempted our ruse, it did not work as planned. I was to go to the movies with Fred, while Ross went dancing with Delores. I hated the thought of him having his arms around Delores, but reassured myself that his dancing with her was only a means to an end.
Fred was to bring me home at ten o’clock, an hour shy of my curfew. I would say good-night to him in front of my house, then slip across the street to the empty lot. Ross would drop Delores off at her house, then park on the street on the other side of the lot and meet me by the blueberry bushes. There, we would have a full hour together before we needed to go home.
I said good-night to Fred in his car and started to get out, but he was too much of a gentleman for that. He raced around the car to open my door for me and then walked with me to the front stoop of the bungalow.
“Your parents would think I was a boor if I didn’t make sure you got in all right,” he said.
I glanced over my shoulder at the lot, wondering if Ross was there yet. If I went into the house, I knew I would not be able to get out again without my parents asking a lot of questions.
“Well,” I said, when we reached my door, “I don’t want to go in right away. I think I’ll just sit on the step for a while and enjoy the evening.”
Stupid me!
“You’re right, it’s beautiful out,” Fred said. He sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders.
I heard the closing of a car door somewhere on the opposite side of the lot and wondered how on earth I was going to get rid of Fred.
“I was so glad when you and Ross broke up,” he said. He turned to kiss me, and I dropped my head so the kiss landed on my forehead. The light was on. Ross could surely see us from the lot and I couldn’t bear to have him see Fred kiss me. I knew how I would feel if I had to watch him kissing Delores.
“Sorry,” Fred said.
“Just…not yet,” I said, feigning a prissiness that was not usually part of my character. Then I slapped my arm as if a mosquito had bitten me. “They’re really biting tonight,” I said. “I think I’d better go in.” I thought I would slip quietly into the house, stand inside the door until I heard Fred drive away, then slip out again.
I said good-night to Fred, then opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Our tiny bathroom was right next to the front door and I froze when I heard the toilet flush. The bathroom door opened and my father walked into the hall.
He looked surprised. “Well, hello, sweetheart,” he said. “I didn’t expect you home this early. Did everything go all right?”
“Fine, Daddy,” I said. “I didn’t want to make a late night of it.”
Foiled, I walked to the back porch to say good-night to my mother before going into my small bedroom. My bedroom’s only window faced the Chapmans’ house. I thought of removing the screen and climbing outside to meet Ross, but what if my parents discovered I was gone and worried about me? I sat on the edge of the bed, the room so small that my knees were up against the windowsill, and watched for Ross’s car to pull into his driveway. I heard a noise outside and yelped when his face suddenly appeared outside my window.
“Shh!” He pressed his finger to his lips and I giggled. “What happened?” he asked.
“Fred wanted to be sure I got inside all right,” I said.
“Figures,” he said. “Can you get out?” He touched the edges of the screen. “Does this pop out?”
“It does, but I can’t, Ross,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Whatever anxiety compelled me to stay inside that night fell away in the nights that followed. I learned how to quickly pop out the screen and slip through the window. I eased my fear of worrying my parents by leaving a note on my pillow. It read: “I didn’t want to wake you. Just felt like going for a walk.” And then I would meet Ross across the street, where we’d pick blueberries in the darkness and make love with their taste on our tongues.
Ross became my summer lover. I went to the New Jersey College for Women, and he followed his father’s footsteps to Princeton. We didn’t communicate during the school year, but I believed we both lived for the summers, when we would date others but take every opportunity we could to be together, away from the prying eyes of his parents. It was a wonder we were never caught. Perhaps it was also a shame.