My Latest Grievance (5 page)

My mother caught me rolling my eyes and gave an abridged version of her why-we-fight speech.

My grandmother asked, "Doesn't this interfere with your teaching?"

My father said, "Mother! It's inseparable from our teaching. I know you think it's getting our hands dirty, but we are just as committed to the association as we are to the students. It's in our blood now. We couldn't stop if we wanted to."

"I didn't raise you to be a rabble-rouser," she said.

My mother laughed.

"I don't see that it helps your careers any," added my grandmother.

"Neither one wants to be a department chair," I volunteered. "Too much paperwork and not enough time in the classroom."

"I see," said my grandmother, which seemed to mean, You've brainwashed my only grandchild.

"Frederica has been planning every minute of your week together," said my father. "It's a side of her we don't see very often—the detail person—but we love knowing she has the fundamental tools."

"What have you two done so far this morning?" asked my mother.

My grandmother said, "I settled in. Frederica found a spot in the refrigerator for my pie. And we decided it would be nice if I stayed in her other twin."

"You're sharing Frederica's room with her?"

Since I had made rather large fusses in the past about the sanctity of my private quarters, I rushed to explain. "I'm practicing for when I have a college roommate."

"Your grandmother's not being polite, is she?" asked my father.

"A little," said my grandmother, "but that's okay. I can always move to those guest quarters if we step on each other's toes."

"A generation or two ago—and certainly in many cultures today—we'd be living under one roof, and it would be the most natural thing in the world for a grandmother and granddaughter to share a room," my mother observed happily.

"I've read Margaret Mead," said my grandmother. She parted her lips as if to embellish the sentence but offered nothing more.

"
Coming of Age in Samoa?
" asked my mother.

My grandmother murmured, "I heard her speak once. Afterwards I bought her memoir."

I knew from the sudden death of expression that this event was somehow linked to Laura Lee. "Where was this?" I asked.

She said, "I was visiting your father in New York City."

My mother looked at me:
See. Exactly as we discussed. She's never accepted me. Note how she embraces the past and its ex-wives.

"I'm getting back in line," said my father. "Can I get anyone coffee? A bag of chips? A slice of Boston cream pie? That's what I'm having."

"He bikes everywhere," I told my grandmother, "specifically so he can have dessert for lunch."

"That's not the only reason," my mother said, looking pained. I knew she was weighing how receptive we'd be to a sermon on clean air.

"Is that safe?" my grandmother asked.

"How many years without an accident?" my father said. "Not even a flat tire. Going on seventeen"

My mother made a hand motion to my father: Go get the pie now. We don't have all day.

"Nothing for you, Grandma?" I asked.

My mother smiled weakly at my uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. "So what have you two been chatting about all morning?" she asked.

My grandmother turned to me. "Frederica? Remind me what we chatted about all morning."

"The usual," I said.

"A lot of time devoted to accommodations," added my grandmother.

We must have looked and sounded unconvincing because my mother said without a cue, "Your granddaughter is quite interested in the subject of Laura Lee. The fact that you still have her wedding portrait gave Frederica the sense that you're nostalgic for that phase of David's life."

"A tempest in a teapot," said my grandmother. "The photo happened to be in an old frame that was on its way to a silversmith in Pittsfield."

My mother waited, employing her disappointed-professor's stare.

My grandmother added, "To see if he could touch up the frame, which is silver-plated. I was going to put my own wedding portrait in it"

My father was walking toward us, whistling. "Look at him," murmured my grandmother. "That's all it takes: dessert. He's been the same his whole life."

My mother said, as my father took his seat, "Your mother was observing that you're an uncomplicated man. It takes nothing more than a piece of pie to put a smile on your face."

"Not every piece of pie. This is one of my favorites—this and their banana cream and their strawberry-rhubarb."

"I think it's a compliment," I offered. "Here's Dad, a full professor with a full teaching load worrying about grievances and poor people, yet he can forget all his troubles for a few minutes when the cafeteria puts out his favorite dessert. I hope I inherited that."

"
He
inherited that from his father," said my grandmother. "Which is why I have a whole repertoire of pies. I could write a cookbook."

The cafeteria clock made its audible click to the next minute, signaling time for Social Stratification. My father settled a new paper napkin against his chest and picked up his fork. My mother gathered her tray and her book bag.

I said, "Leave the tray. I'll put it on the belt."

"Thank you, sweetie," she said. Then, "Have a nice afternoon, Jane ... David."

She didn't linger to hear the reminiscence that any mention of trays always prompted. "When Frederica was little," my father enthused, "she'd stand by the conveyer belt for as long as we let her,
watching the dirty dishes pass by. She had an amazing attention span for that; any student babysitter could sit at a nearby table and do her homework because Frederica would stand there, transfixed, until the lunch period was over and the last tray was dispatched. In fact"—and here his smile became a chuckle—"we used to say, 'Shall we take Frederica to the hypnotist now?'"

"He's not telling you that I'd kick and scream if they tried to take me home before the belt stopped."

"Slight exaggeration," said my father. "You were, for the most part, a very reasonable child."

"So were you," said my grandmother.

This was my opening. I said, "What was Dad like as a teenager?"

She studied my father for a few long seconds before prompting, "David, do you remember?"

He stirred his coffee with the handle of his dirty fork. "I'd say I was like most teenage boys: romantic, studious, dreamy."

I said, swallowing my distaste for such appalling adjectives, "That's not typical of the boys I know. But I guess you were your own person."

"He wasn't any trouble," said my grandmother. "He was a bit of a loner, but that might have been because he spent a lot of time in his room studying."

"When did you get your driver's license?" I asked.

"I think ... I'm not exactly sure. It was before I went to college. Maybe the summer after I graduated."

"What about the senior prom?" I asked. "You must've gotten it in time for that."

"I believe I went," he said.

"You certainly did," said my grandmother.

"With Laura Lee?" I asked.

He moved his pie plate a quarter turn. "I think you know the answer to that, Frederica." And then to my grandmother: "She's been fixated on the topic of my divorce since those damn pearls arrived."

"
Did
you?" I asked.

"No, I did
not
take Laura Lee to the prom. We hadn't met yet. I took a girl from my Algebra II class who, in fact, issued the invitation to me rather than vice versa." He paused. "Maybe it was Calculus."

"What was her name?"

"Betty?" offered my grandmother. "Beth?"

When neither could confirm the date's identity, I asked what she looked like.

"A big girl, I think. With red hair done up on top of her head so she was taller than I. And freckled."

"I've drawn a complete blank," said my grandmother.

"Didn't anyone take a picture?"

"I seem to remember her parents taking a photo when I picked her up."

"So if you picked her up, you must have had your license," I reasoned.

"It's coming back to me. Her name was Betsy, and after graduation she went to Carnegie Mellon."

My grandmother asked my father, "Don't you tell her these things? Teenage girls are very interested in details like this."

"Overly interested," said my father.

"Did you tell Dad about your love life when you were young?" I asked my grandmother.

"He never asked. I'd have told him anything he wanted to know."

I asked how many times she'd been married.

My father said, "I doubt whether that was a sincere question, Mother."

I protested that I certainly was sincere. I had good reasons, didn't I, to wonder about the previous marriages of people I thought I knew?

"She's punishing us for not telling her about Laura Lee earlier," he said calmly.

"Are you familiar with the expression, 'It's like pulling teeth'?" I asked.

"What do you want to know?" asked my grandmother.

"Everything. Like how did they fall in love? How did he propose? How many bridesmaids did she have?"

"Frederica knows the important things," said my father. "I was married. It didn't work out. I met Aviva. We fell in love. We wrote our dissertations. We were lucky enough to get jobs outside Boston, in a town with an excellent school system, even before we conceived her." He smiled. "And now, as much as I'd like to linger, duty calls: office hours." He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, an act that struck me as purposefully, paternally picturesque for the benefit of anyone watching and trying to evaluate what kind of relationship a professor of psychology had with the adolescent specimen who was his daughter.

When he was out of sight my grandmother said, "He was in grad school at NYU. She was at Sarah Lawrence, later subletting in the city, trying to be a dancer. Her maiden name was French. First date was just a favor to me—Staten Island Ferry and an ice cream sundae—because Laura Lee was the little cousin in the big city, jobless and friendless, according to her mother. He'd spotted her at a family funeral, and I did the rest. I don't know how he proposed, but it was probably not one for the books. I remember two bridesmaids and a matron of honor. They honeymooned in Bermuda, but didn't get one beach day." She reached for her purse and pushed her chair back. "I think this lunch has lasted long enough, don't you? Shall we set out for an adventure?"

I knew what "adventure" meant in the lexicon of grandmotherly outings: Filene's Basement, by subway, trying on clothes without the benefit of a fitting room.

I was relieved. My mother didn't believe in recreational shopping, and I'd been to every useless museum a dozen times.

I
HOPED AND MAINTAINED
that I was an innocent bystander in the drama that brought Laura Lee French to Dewing College. Grandma, on the other hand, got full credit—a sin of commission according to some; of omission according to her and her factions. My own accidental input was a need to pee after our April lunch, visiting a bathroom next to a bulletin board labeled
DO NOT REMOVE. OFFICIAL JOB POSTINGS AS SET FORTH IN THE DSP COLLECTIVE BARGAINING AGREEMENT.

Maybe I took a little too long at the mirror probing an incipient pimple on my chin, because as my grandmother waited outside, she perused the listings, eventually helping herself to an eye-catching magenta flyer.

Later, on the subway, I asked what she was studying so intently.

"Just a situation," she said. "For the right person it could be a wonderful opportunity."

I leaned over, read the description, then asked, "Would you really want to be a dorm mother? With a hundred girls under your wing?"

"It's not for me. I was thinking of an acquaintance who's out of work right now ... Room and board plus salary," she murmured. "A nine-month position with full benefits."

I wasn't interested enough in her circle of friends to inquire as to which dowdy gardening buddy was looking for work. I agreed that it was a good deal considering you get an apartment on campus and probably not more than a couple of crises per week.

"My friend would have a very nice way with this age group," she said. "She's weathered a few crises herself and could really identify with students worrying about breaking up or flunking out."

"How old is she?" I asked.

"Let me do the math ... about five years younger than your father. But very young at heart."

Still, I didn't catch on. I said, "Your friend could call Mom or Dad if she wanted to know more about the school. They do that a lot—meet with people."

"Perhaps," she said. "Down the road."

I stated politely that any friend of Grandma's would be a friend of mine. Surely my parents would invite her candidate to dinner when she came to interview. She could come, too. We loved her pies.

Grandma folded the flyer and put it in her purse. "Is Ada Tibbets Hall a nice dormitory?" she asked.

I said, "It's famous for its weirdoes."

"Meaning what?"

"Some are just arty, always stretching canvases in the living room. The rest are a little freaky. A lot of them don't shave their armpits or their legs."

"So far, I don't hear anything that would discourage my friend."

I added, not wanting to appear intolerant, "Some people think they're the smartest dorm on campus. They've retained the bowl for the highest collective GPA as long as I can remember."

"Is it a nice building? I meant. Not too old and not a firetrap?"

"It looks fine. I'll ask Aviva and David tonight," I said. "They would know if anyone filed a grievance about working conditions there."

She frowned. "That's right, their second career. They always know who's complaining about what."

Her anti-union animus distracted me from the topic at hand. I said, "If it weren't for the labor movement, we wouldn't have weekends. Or Monday holidays. I think you're forgetting that."

"I'm worried about their jobs! It seems to me that they've been championing their causes forever when they could have been publishing articles in journals."

I said automatically—me the veteran of stenciling many a picket sign—"Their only causes are hours, wages, and working conditions."