Then She Found Me (18 page)

He came into the kitchen as if exiting a stage and escaping with relief into the wings. I whispered, “She’ll take the hint.” In a few minutes, we heard Bernice gather her things and walk down my hallway. I left the kitchen in time to see her jerk open the door and bid me a quiet, wounded good-bye.

I waited for the sound of her heels clicking on the hall linoleum, and the elevator’s chime. “Mother dearest is
gone,” I called to Dwight, as I returned to the kitchen. He was coaxing coffee from my dented electric percolator and supermarket grind. He seemed to graze the ceiling and fill the space with his long arms.

Later, watching the first of the two movies he had brought, Dwight asked, “Do you think she thinks we’re sleeping together?”

I said no. She thinks I’m backward and undersexed.

After a few minutes he asked, “How would you feel about it?”

Good, I said, watching Woody Allen pretend to do things under the covers to Shelley Duvall. Good.

“Any other thoughts on the matter?”

I smiled. Stared straight ahead and said, “All the time.”

Dwight slouched lower on the couch so our faces were level. “Let me get this straight …” he began and waited.

I looked at him. “What?”

“Am I slow? Have you been thinking,‘ Is this guy retarded or what?’”

“This is our second date. We couldn’t very well do it in the library.”

He laughed. “You don’t know how many times we did it in the library.”

I said that was intriguing. How long had that been going on?

“You’ll get a big head if I tell you. Or you’ll think I’m completely depraved.”

“Since before I asked you out?”

“No comment.”

“Before dinner at the Ritz?”

Dwight grimaced, closed both eyes, opened one, and said, “Since the informational picketing at the School Committee meeting….”

I had a vague memory of it—signs that said, “If you think education’s expensive, try ignorance.” Years before, maybe three years before. Christmas lights strung around evergreens on the City Hall lawn, Mr. Willamee in an enormous parka and earmuffs.

“When was that?” I asked.

“A few contracts ago,” said Dwight.

“C’mon. Not that long.”

That long, he said.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

He sat up straighter. “I did.”

“What?”

“School stuff. Latin. How are your classes going? Who’s getting the Latin prize? Are you going to the meeting tomorrow?”

I squinted. “Vaguely.”

“I can see I made a huge impression.”

I touched his face. “I’m sorry.”

Dwight shrugged unconvincingly. “A little crush. I was pretty used to having my crushes unreciprocated.”

I put my other hand on his face. Rubbed the cheekbones with my thumbs. “Not this time,” I said and kissed him on selected spots. We settled against each other to watch the rest of
Annie Hall
. As the credits were rolling he asked rather formally, “Do you want to watch the second one?”

I shook my head no.

“Kind of late?”

“Not for me.”

“It’s
The Big Easy,”
said Dwight.

“It’s supposed to be good.”

“We don’t have to watch it. It was two-for-one night.”

“I’d like to see it sometime.”

“Are you tired?”

“No. Are you?”

I said no, just drunk. I also said, “I’m sorry about not reciprocating back then. I should have noticed. If I hadn’t gone to look something up about Kennedy—”

“Now you know why I have a soft spot for Bernice,” he said.

Dwight patted my thigh just above my knee, a coach’s two quick taps—
c’mon, kid.
He stood up, offered to pull me to my feet. Said, “Let’s get it over with, Ape.”

I
called Bernice from home after school, even though I had resolved not to position myself as the apologizer. She answered the phone with a “Yes?” in the same martyred voice as her good-bye of the evening before.

“I know you’re mad at me,” I said.

She didn’t answer. I tried again. “I could tell by the way you left.”

Wearily Bernice said, “What am I supposed to say, April?‘ Yes, I’m mad; I was just beginning to feel better after a foul day when you decided you had had enough of your mother for one night’?”

“You should have called first.”

“You’ve made that eminently clear.”

“You knew he’d be there,” I said.

“So what?” she said angrily. “So fucking what? I was extremely upset and went to my daughter for solace
without thinking it through to every last ramification. I’m a terrible person. I should be prosecuted for what I did!”

“You could’ve scared him off,” I said quietly. “He’s a shy person.”

“Please. I can read a situation as well as anyone. There was no danger of him leaving. If I had thought I was going to drive him away, I’d have withdrawn quickly and with due discretion. Give me some credit.”

I murmured something noncommittal.

“Did he leave?” Bernice demanded.

“No.”

“Did I ruin the evening?”

“No,” I said.

“You two seemed pretty thick, hiding out in the kitchen.”

“We were just cleaning up,” I said.

“I threw you two together, didn’t I? Unwittingly, I admit. But something was going on there … something was being forged in the kitchen while I cooled my heels in the living room.”

“Dwight was trying to help.”

“He’s not without charm. And I thought I did a fair job of drawing him out, by the way.”

I grunted.

“Are you attracted to him sexually? He’s obscenely tall.”

“Six-five.”

“I’ve never made love to a man that tall,” she said. “I’m wondering if they’re built proportionately.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I take it you know the answer?”

“Did Dwight and I go to bed after you left? No.”

Bernice said, “I think that’s probably wise.”

Because you didn’t like him, I thought. Because
you
wouldn’t want to sleep with Dwight.

“He certainly adores you,” she said.

“He does?”

“He never took his eyes off you. He
dotes
on you.”

I smiled. Bernice meant Dwight didn’t pay adequate attention to her.

“When are you going to let the poor man bed you?”

I laughed and said, “I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

She said, quietly but for effect, “I wish that were true.” She asked when we were going out again. If Dwight was a decent kisser. What he had to say about her.

“Nothing,” I said reflexively.

“You’re the worst liar.”

“I’m not lying. We talked about school … and some other stuff.”

Bernice hesitated and said after a few moments, “Can I give you some advice?”

Okay, I said. Depending on—

“Don’t get in the habit of defining your relationship by what I’ve said or done that day. Don’t turn Dwight into your psychiatrist. Find things to talk about besides me.”

I said, “We have lots to talk about.”

“So I didn’t ruin your romance?”

“That isn’t the issue.”

Bernice said gaily, “You’re looking for an apology for my naughty behavior? All right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come without calling first. Okay? Are we back on speaking terms?”

“We never weren’t on speaking terms,” I said.

“You know what I mean. I want us to be close again. I want us to have dinner soon. Dwight can come.”

“We haven’t made our plans yet. I could speak to him and get back to you.”

“Can I say one more thing?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you have something slinkier to wear when you’re entertaining at home? If not, I’d get something. Jumpers in lumberjack flannel are nice for teaching—”

“There’s my door,” I lied.

“Does he know you’re Jewish?”

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“That’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard.”

“I hope he realizes your parents wouldn’t approve the way I do. That they wouldn’t be endorsing this or taking the two of you out for a lovely dinner.”

One more thing, she said: You can tell me anything. I know you’re falling in love. They wouldn’t have known that. You wouldn’t have been able to tell them. I’m good at this, though. This is the side of life I excel at. They had their strong points—I know that—but I’m better than they would have been about a daughter falling in love with a less-than-obvious choice. A hell of a lot better. Aren’t I?

M
y brother called me at work to remind me that the next day was my father’s Yortseit, the anniversary of his death. Three years.

I said I had remembered and already bought a candle; I had even expected him to call and remind me—the bright spot in all of this. “I miss you,” I said. “When can I see you?”

“I’ll drive up to Quincy,” he said after a pause. “I like that restaurant we went to for your birthday.”

“When?”

“Tonight!”

“What time can you get here?” I asked.

“Six-fifteen? Six-thirty.”

“Meet me at home, and we’ll drive over in one car.”

He said okay. It had been so long he needed directions.

*  *  *

He arrived early and was starved. We drove to the Greek restaurant and were seated before Freddie asked, “What’d you want to talk to me about?”

“A couple of things. Important things.”

“You need money?” he asked.

“No. Other things. Two things—”

“A guy?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Finally. And stranger than that … I hadn’t been looking for my real mother, my birth mother, but it happened. She found me. I know who the woman is who had me and gave me up.”

“No kidding?” said Freddie. What about sharing a plate of mixed appetizers?

I said okay—the one with stuffed grape leaves and spinach pie, though. Not the one with the fried chicken livers.

“Do you want to hear about her?”

Yeah, he said. How old?

“Fifty-three. She’s a TV star,” I said.

“No shit! Who?”

“Bernice Graves,” I said.

Freddie squinted. He repeated the strange syllables to see if they added up to a name he recognized. “Who’s that?” he asked, still hopeful.

“‘Bernice G!’ The morning talk show on Channel Four?”

“Never heard of it.”

“She’s on at nine
A.M.
”

“Did Mom and Dad know?” he asked.

“Not that she’d found me. That was after. Maybe they only knew her real name, Graverman, and didn’t connect it with the show. Maybe they
did
know. I don’t think so, though.”

“Why’d she give you away?”

“She was seventeen, not married.”

“What about the father?” he asked.

“A guy she was in love with, thought she was going to marry. The usual story. His name was Jack Flynn,” I said.

“Flynn?” he repeated, the way my parents had pronounced surnames to roll the ethnicity around on their tongues.

“Have you met him, too?”

I said I hadn’t. Didn’t know if I ever would, if I even wanted to.

“Does she have other kids?”

“Nope.”

“Is she rich?” asked Freddie.

I tried not to snap at him. “Well off, I think.”

“How much does she make a year?”

“I have no idea.”

“You never asked?”

“No, I didn’t. You don’t do that.”

“What kind of car does she drive?”

“A Mercedes, I think. Or a BMW. I’ve only been in it once.”

Freddie huffed as if he couldn’t believe my slipshod recall of pertinent details.

“She takes me to expensive restaurants every week,” I offered.

Freddie was not satisfied. He knew cars, not Boston restaurants.

“How much money she makes isn’t really the issue,” I said.

“It is if you’re her only child and heir,” said Freddie.

I told him that was a cold-blooded way of looking at it. There was so much more to it—imagine at thirty-six meeting the woman who gave birth to you!

Freddie did not imagine anything, because the appetizer platter arrived. He did not ask if I was happy about finding
my birth mother, or sad or mixed up. I did what Trude would have done at this point: served him one stuffed grape leaf, one triangle of spinach pie, one meatball, one portion of moussaka, a hunk of feta cheese and three calamata olives, then took a junior version of his plate for myself.