Eve's Daughters (46 page)

Daddy scooped his napkin off his lap and threw it onto the table like a gauntlet. “Congress voted to pass the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution—”

“Yes, because a U.S. ship was attacked. But what was an American warship doing in Vietnamese waters to begin with? I’ll tell you, sir! It was sent there by our imperialistic government. It’s another chapter in our long, sordid history of exploiting poor countries for America’s economic benefit. There is no other goal—”

“There are very clear goals,” Daddy interrupted, waving his forefinger. Our waiter scurried over in response, then quickly fled again when he heard Daddy’s angry words, fired like missiles at Jeff. “The Communists are the ones who expanded the Cold War into that part of the world, not us. If we lose Vietnam to the Communists, we’ll lose all the other nations in southeast Asia to them.”

“The so-called Domino Theory is a bunch of baloney. The Vietnamese people should be allowed to decide for themselves which form of government they want, not be dictated to by the U.S. military.” I had my hand on Jeff’s arm, trying to hold him back, while Mom tried in vain to restrain Daddy. They ignored both of us.

“You realize, of course, that your protests are actually helping the enemy. North Vietnam would have surrendered by now if all you radicals weren’t giving them hope that America will pull out. And by helping the Hanoi government, you’re fighting against our own American soldiers.”

“I’m trying to end the war so more soldiers won’t have to die! What about all those American kids who have already died—for what! We have nothing to show for it!”

“It’s your protests that are prolonging it. You’re the reason men are dying.” Mom eyed Daddy’s scarlet face with concern. If she’d had a blood pressure cuff in her purse, she would have pulled it out and clamped it to his arm. “You and your radical groups like the SDS are taking over college campuses, disrupting education—you want to tear the government down, but you don’t have a clue what you’re going to replace it with.”

“I’m not trying to overthrow the government. I’m protesting to end the draft and end the Vietnam war!”

“And what if you don’t get your way, young man? What then? What if they draft you?”

“I have no quarrel with the Vietnamese people,” Jeff said, suddenly quiet.

“They aren’t threatening me or my country. I could never aim a gun at them and kill them. If the government drafts me to fight in this immoral war, I’ll move to Canada.”

“A draft dodger? How can you be so cowardly and irresponsible?” People at the other tables had begun glancing our way. Mom and I watched, paralyzed, not knowing how to stop the argument. In the end, it was Grandma Emma who quietly ended the melee.

“You know, Stephen, my father was a draft dodger.” Daddy and Jeff both turned to stare at her. “It’s true,” she said, laughing. “Don’t look so shocked. That’s how my family came to America. The German government changed the draft laws in the 1890s, making Papa eligible for conscription. War was against his religious principles, so when he got his draft notice, he felt he had no other choice but to defy the government and leave the country. He crossed the border into Switzerland illegally, just like these young men who flock to Canada are doing. Papa wasn’t cowardly or irresponsible. What he did was no different from what young Jeffrey plans to do. And in the end, everything worked out for the best. I was born in America because of Papa’s decision, and
so
was your wife, Stephen. Isn’t it funny how history repeats itself?” She smiled sweetly, then patted Daddy’s hand, now resting limply on the white linen tablecloth. “Do you suppose, Stephen dear, that you could find our waiter? I’d love to order some dessert.”

Early the next morning, Jeff left for Pittsburgh. We said a somber goodbye, not only because we would miss each other, but because the morning news had reported the assassination of Bobby Kennedy. With so much turmoil going on in the world around us, I wondered if Jeff and I would ever get a chance to live “happily ever after.”

My parents now had all summer to convince me that Jeff was a loser. They didn’t waste any time. The first assault began at breakfast.

“You can do better, Suzanne,” Daddy said. “Why shortchange yourself? How is he ever going to earn a living as an artist? Or is he planning to let you support him?”

“Mom
lets
you support her,” I said. “What’s the difference? I love Jeff. I’d be glad to support him.”

“What is Jeff’s religious upbringing?” Mom asked. “I don’t recall him mentioning which denomination he belongs to.”

“If he’s Polish, his people are probably Roman Catholic,” Daddy said.

I knew there was no way to explain Jeff’s beliefs. It had required a trip to New York and a full day at the art museum before I understood them myself. “Jeff is a Christian,” I said. “But he isn’t into denominational labels, and neither am I.”

Mom winced as if I’d pinched a painful nerve. “Suzanne, try to understand why your father and I are concerned about you. Your young man seems to have had a very strong influence on you already, and—”

“And we don’t want to see you throw your life away!” Daddy gathered up his keys and wallet, preparing to leave for his hospital rounds. “It would be a terrible waste for you to leave your home and your family to follow some vagabond hippie to Canada.”

Once again, Grandma jumped into the fray, this time saving me from losing my temper. “You know, it’s interesting that you would feel that way, Stephen. My mother’s parents told her she
had
to leave Germany and follow Papa to America. They said her place was with her husband.”

“Jeff isn’t her husband.” Daddy may as well have added,
and that’s final!

“He will be my husband someday,” I said. “Jeff asked me to marry him and I said yes.” That earned a big hug from Grandma, looks of stunned shock from my parents.

Daddy’s parting words as he stormed out of the door were, “If you marry Michelangelo Pulaski, you can forget about receiving any financial support from me for graduate school!”

When it was time for Grandma to return to her apartment in the city, she asked me to drive her home. “I don’t get to see Suzanne very often now that she’s away at college,” she told Mom. “This will give us some time together.”

When we were alone in the car, I thanked her. “At least I can escape the anti-Jeff campaign for a little while.”

“You two are very much in love, aren’t you?” she said.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Oh yes. Every time he looks at you, it’s like he’s memorizing you, like it may be the last time he’ll ever see you. Whenever he’s near you he just has to touch your hand, your shoulder, your face . . .”

“Daddy says he’s always pawing me.”

Grandma laughed. “I think it’s more like he’s grounding himself. Otherwise, the electric current that arcs between the two of you might kill somebody. And you look as though you want to eat him for dessert! Have you slept together yet?”

“Grandma!” I nearly steered the car off the road.

“Sorry, I say outrageous things sometimes. You don’t have to answer.”

“It’s okay,” I said when I could speak. “We haven‘t slept together. Jeff feels very strongly about waiting, and so do I.”

“I’m proud of you both, dear. You won’t be sorry you waited.”

“The funny thing is, Bradley Wallace—whom Daddy adored—was always trying to get me to give in.”

“Was Bradley that last fellow you brought home?”

“Yes, the guy with the crew cut like Daddy’s.”

“Ugh! Good riddance to him! He reminded me of my husband, Karl.” She shuddered. I thought of how close I had come to spending my life with Brad and I shuddered too.

“Mom and Dad don’t have a clue what Jeff is really like,” I said after we’d driven in silence for a while. “They just see the outside, how different he is from them. They see a hippie, and they’ve already made up their minds to hate him. I never dreamed they would be so bigoted. But I’m in love with him, Grandma. I’ve never really loved anyone before. Jeff is so . . . he’s so
alive
! I’m different when I’m with him. I’m more real, more
me
. He’s made me see life from a totally different perspective and think about things I’ve never thought about before. I’m more creative when I’m with him. Even my professors have noticed the difference. Every story or poem I’ve written since meeting Jeff has been better than anything I’ve ever done before. I love him, Grandma. Mom and Dad just can’t accept that.”

“Don’t let them break you apart, Suzy!” I had never heard my grandmother speak so vehemently. When I took my eyes off the highway to glance at her, I saw tears in her eyes. “Whatever you do, don’t let them break you apart!”

“Grandma-?”

“I never told your mother what I’m about to tell you, Suzanne, but I went through the same thing you’re experiencing. Before I married Karl Bauer, I fell in love with a man my father disapproved of. Patrick’s family was against me as well. If we had married, both sides would have disowned us. In the end, we decided to part. It was a horrible choice to have to make. Patrick was the only man I’ve ever loved. Don’t make the same mistake we did, Suzy. If you love Jeff, then marry him.”

I gazed at my grandmother in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re telling me to defy my parents.”

“I am. Because they’re wrong. I’ll do everything in my power to help you and Jeff. I don’t have much money, but you’re welcome to all that I have. I’ll co-sign a loan for your schooling if you need one, but get married, Suzanne.

Move to Canada with Jeff if he goes. The rest of your family might disown you, but you’ll always have me.”

“You would really do all that for us, Grandma?”

“Absolutely!” I saw the determined set of her jaw and knew she meant it. Then her face suddenly softened. “You know, Jeff reminds me so much of Patrick. Your love for each other is like ours was. Promise me you won’t allow anyone to break you apart.” Her voice broke, and I saw her swipe at a tear.

“I promise.”

“Because if I can just convince you and Jeff not to make the same mistake we did,” she wiped another tear, “then it’s almost as though Patrick and I will have a second chance.”

“I’m going to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago,” Jeff told me in August when we talked on the phone. “We’re going to demonstrate against the Vietnam War.”

I tried in vain to talk him out of it. “Jeff, Mayor Daley is not only putting the entire police force on alert, he’s even calling in five thousand National Guard troops!”

“That’s all those bureaucrats know—intimidation and force!” I held the receiver away from my ear as he shouted into the phone.

“Jeff, please don’t go. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I love you.”

“I love you too, but the war is wrong.”

“Jeff, listen. . . .”

“I’m sorry, but I have to go there and let my voice be heard.”

When riots broke out in Chicago, I watched the violence on TV, horrified, knowing that Jeff was somewhere in the middle of it all. As the number of arrests and injuries soared, I could only pray that Jeff wasn’t among them. When he finally called to tell me he was okay, that he wasn’t in the hospital or jail, I wept.

“I can’t even begin to describe what happened there . . . what I saw . . . Jeff’s voice was subdued, but I sensed his anger boiling beneath the surface, waiting to explode. I knew he had to release it somehow, but I dreaded the thought of him attending another protest. Instead, Jeff poured all the passion and horror of his experience in Chicago into a painting he entitled
Protest
.

I sat behind him in a corner of the art studio that fall and watched him create. Sweat poured off him, mingling with the paint that spattered him from head to toe. Music blasted in the background as he worked. When the time
came for me to return to my dormitory, Jeff continued working late into the night.

I saw the genius of his creation and stood in awe of his talent. No one who saw
Protest
was surprised when it won first place in a national art contest to depict the turmoil of the times. Art galleries all across America displayed Jeff s painting as it traveled on a nationwide tour. When Daddy read an article about it in
Time
magazine, his attitude toward Jeff softened—slightly.

“I really hadn’t thought much about Vietnam until I met you,” I told Jeff as we ate lunch together in the cafeteria.

“You didn’t?”

“No, I was much too preoccupied with my own selfish concerns and ambitions. But now I’d like my voice to be heard too.”

“You’re a writer—write something!”

“‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ and all that?”

“Maybe so. Try it.”

As we talked, one of Jeff’s hippie friends, a shaggy fellow named Moon-dog, came over to our table. “Hey, Jeff. You’re going to the Vietnam Moratorium next week, right? Think I can bum a ride?” Jeff glanced at me guiltily. Moon-dog caught the tension he’d suddenly created between us and backed away. “Right. Talk to you later, Jeff.”

“What was he talking about?” I asked as he hurried off.

“The Vietnam Moratorium? It’s a national day of protest. They’re calling for demonstrations and work stoppages. . . .”

“I’m going with you,” I said.

“I know what happened in Chicago,” Jeff said. “It’s too dangerous. You’re not going with me!”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do, Jeff Pulaski! If it’s too dangerous for me, then it’s too dangerous for you. You’re not going either.”

He scrambled to his feet to glare down at me. “Like blazes I’m not! I’ve already made plans!”

I stood too. We faced each other eye to eye in spite of the fact that he was six inches taller than me. “Then you’d better include me in those plans because I’m going—with or without you!”

In the end, Jeff and I went to the demonstration together. October 15, 1969, turned out to be a gorgeous fall day, the leaves at their peak of color. “If it weren’t for this rotten war, I’d be painting a whole different scene,” Jeff said as we rode in his Volkswagen to the nearby state university campus for the moratorium.

“True, but there isn’t much drama in a bunch of dead leaves,” I said. He gave me a wry grin.