What’s Happening? (29 page)

In the earpiece, she could hear the steady bleating as the phone rang. She inhaled from her cigarette. The tip blazed orange, casting a pale light on her mouth and cheeks, then faded to a slight reddish glow. Rita spit out the smoke as the phone on the other end was lifted.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mother … Rita. How're you?”

“Rita?” Mother exclaimed with surprise. “How're you?” She emphasized the “you” that had been lost so long.

“Okay. How's Dad and Randy?”

Rita was being sincere when she asked about her family. She could now call and be sincere because through her life and love with Marc she was more securely a person, she was no longer plagued by the insecurity of being alone and unloved, and she could understand her parents' anxiety and insecurity because she now knew that they too were only human, plagued with human imperfections, fears, needs, anxieties, just as she and Marc were. Before—before Marc—she had never been so understanding as to consider that her parents might be doing what they were doing because they believed in their own way of life, because they had to be themselves, because they too were insecure in their relation to the world. She had not considered the fact that people differ in taste and intellect as much as they differ in appearance. Even if Rita had realized before, she would never have been forgiving. Why should she have been the one to accept rather than they? Why should she have forgiven them? Now she understood, and in understanding, she felt she must be the one to go forward with outspread arms. If she disagreed with them, she thought, she should try to indicate her disagreement gently rather than condemn them. How irrational the behavior of months past now seemed. It was wonderful to be with Marc, she thought, wonderful to be awakened to the world finally, after years and years of unending sleep.

“Fine, fine, everybody's just fine,” Mother assured her. “But we haven't heard from you in so long. We were starting to worry. Poppa was going to call, but I told him, ‘She's all right. If something is wrong, we'll hear,' I told him. So how are the girls, all right?”

“Oh fine, we're all fine too.”

“That's good. What are you doing these days?”

Rita was disappointed that Mother's voice was the same. Somehow she had hoped it might have changed. She envisioned Mother at home, now by the kitchen phone, trying to dig into Rita's life, trying to tactfully interrogate her, to see if she was still a disgrace.

“Working a little … going to school … the same things,” she lied.

“You're still going to that school, hanh?” Mother asked, a deep-seated disapproval ringing in her voice.

Rita drew in her breath. “Yes, … I'm still going to school.”

A profound silence befell the conversation.

Why does knowledge impose understanding which ignorance and laziness can shirk? Must I be the appeaser
, Rita wondered,
the offerer, the one who must go to them, to offer gift tokens? Have these adults no obligation to me? Am I not a person?

“What else is new in the neighborhood?” asked Rita, making conversation.

“Nothing much. You know Mrs. Shoren's daughter, Betty? You should see the lovely engagement ring she got—five carats—and such a nice boy too, so respectful, and nice. It's such a pleasure for a mother to see her daughter so well provided. Ahh …” Mother sighed soulfully.

“Yes, really nice,” agreed Rita, leaping agilely to the side of the thrust as it tried desperately, albeit lovingly, to tear into her flesh. Rita tried to justify Mother's obtuseness. Mother had been brought up in a different world; the rules that her grandparents had drummed into their children—rules inflexibly tied to the horsecart and Jewish persecution, were out of tune today. It is impossible to retain specific rules forever, because the old rules were made to cope with old problems, and now there are new problems, different problems, and the need for new rules. The world is bigger, and wider, and faster, and there are more things to do and enjoy, and more freedom, and more problems, … and though it's nice to have respect, it should help, not impede life as it exists. People must respect themselves first, before they can respect things that once were. Rita wondered what the ancients were like—the ones who made up the ancient rules. Were they so much more self-sufficient as to have been able to think for themselves? Why were people who were now alive so incapable of making rules, if not for themselves at least for posterity? Was it the age of automation and mass production which did not require thought, which reduced people to digits and cogs in a vast machinery? Or was it that the rules of life were always created haphazardly, by inaction and whim, evolving by themselves from the depths of indecision.

“You know,” continued Mother “… your brother, Randy, he's getting so big now. He's going out on dates with a girl from school. What a big boy! He even wants to take Poppa's car, but I won't let him. He might hurt himself.”

“I think he's a little young to be driving a car.”

“Aww, he's only a boy. But he's getting big already,” Mother crowed proudly.

Life is not breathing or eating
, Rita thought.
Life is change. And a thing that does not change is dead
.

“So how come you called? I mean, you don't usually.”

“I thought it might be nice if I said hello to my family.”

“Oh, really? You mean, you're just waking up?” Mother was sarcastic in the way only ignorance can be sarcastic—like a dull hammer.

Rita held her breath, holding in her annoyance.

“Yes, I guess so,” Rita replied resignedly. “Everyone has to wake up once in a while—don't they?”

“Why don't you come over for dinner. We haven't seen you in months, you know?”

Rita wasn't prepared for another visit yet. She just couldn't bear being trapped again.

“Yes, I know. Maybe I'll come over soon and have dinner one night. That is, if there's no plate throwing or any other nonsense.”

“You know Poppa don't mean that. He's just tired from working and he gets upset right away. He don't mean nothin' …”

Understanding is wonderful
, Rita thought,
but it's difficult too. Difficult to accept and forgive misunderstanding and the ignorance of those understood
.

“I guess he doesn't mean it, but it's terrible to come home and be greeted like that. You know, I can't live my life your way forever. I have to be able to think on my own … to think out my own life. I'm very happy now.”

“Maybe. You're young yet … you'll see.”

“What do you mean, I'm young yet. I can think. I can use my head now. Is there a certain gift that parents get all of a sudden when they become parents that makes them so much smarter than anybody.”

“Are you starting in again?”

“I'm sorry,” she said guiltily. She had forgotten to duck. “Can't you just let me live my own life, my own way, … and we can be friends … happy together because we just enjoy?”

“Sure … you know everything. Your parents are stupid. Such a smart girl.”

“Okay … Let's not fight. I have to go now,” she said quickly, feeling the need of relief after the first almost successful encounter. “I'll give you a ring next week, and come for dinner maybe.”

“Okay, dear, … but listen, don't wear those black stockings. They make you look terrible. I mean, you know … they're not for you, dear. Believe Momma …”

“All right, Mother,” Rita agreed in desperation. “Give my love to Poppa and Randy. And tell Randy not to be going out with too many girls. He'll get to be a playboy.”

Mother chuckled appreciatively. “I'll tell him, dear. Goodbye now. Give Momma a kiss.”

Rita puckered her lips and sent a short, audible kiss into the receiver.

“So long, see you soon.” Rita took the phone from her ear and turned to replace it on the cradle. Just then she heard Marc behind her, closing the door.

21

“Who were you talking to?” Marc asked as he walked toward Rita.

“My mother.” Rita walked toward him, her arms outstretched.

Marc lit the small lamp on the bookcase against the side wall and put his portfolio down on a chair. He removed his sweater, throwing it on the chair with the portfolio.

“Your mother?” He held Rita off, studying her face intently.

“Yes … why do you ask like that?”

“No reason, … no reason at all,” Marc said calmly yet curtly. He studied Rita's face as he lit a cigarette. He snapped the cover of his lighter shut and blew out the smoke in a thin, steady stream before him. He walked to the kitchen and reached into the refrigerator for a beer.

“It's crazy, you know?” He took the bottle opener from the drawer under the table edge. “… the way people are, and like sometimes they don't like each other and refuse to talk to each other …” He popped the top off the bottle, lifted it, and took a long pull from it. “… and then they'll call each other on the phone and kiss and say, ‘I'll see you soon.' Crazy, isn't it?” A hard smile split his face.

Rita winced, realizing Marc was starting in on one of his tirades about being deceived.

“Oh, Marc, … please don't start with that jealous stuff again. Jesus Christ, I can't even talk to anyone on the phone now.”

“Who the hell are you kidding—me? You don't even talk to your mother! So you tell me it's your mother you're talking to when I come in here and you're kissing the shit out of the phone. Come on, baby, … this is Marc!” he yelled, tapping his chest with his thumb.

“I know who it is, … you jealous idiot,” Rita said calmly, smiling to reassure and calm Marc. “Come on, baby,” she tried to put her arms around his neck. “That
was
my mother. I'll call her back and you can talk to her if you want.”

“I don't want to talk to your mother. I don't want to talk to anyone. God damn women! Can't trust them for a minute. Turn around once slow, and they're off making it in the closet with some other cat. What the hell's the use? It's always the same. Every one of you.” He turned and walked to the bedroom.

Tears welled up in Rita's eyes. She had never loved anyone as she loved Marc; she had never been so fulfilled by anyone, and never before had it hurt so to be disbelieved. That he distrusted her fidelity was even more crushing. Through their love, the sexual act had become something more than a mere physical pleasure. It was a consummation, a blending, an embodiment of their love; it was warm and beautiful and sincere and harmonious. Thoughts of her past affairs didn't fill her with sorrow as much as wonder. How could it be that she had cherished those fleeting passions snatched out of time, compared to this eternal beauty and serenity? Only this was making love—this physical sharing of eternity for brief seconds. Even the phrase “making love” made her pity her promiscuous friends, her former self for her past life. How could she have called that making love … when all it was was a pilfered physical act.

Marc's jealous rages were beginning to weary her, however. She had been awakened to the beauty of love, of tenderness and kindness, but these were fragile, delicate qualities, new born in her, and easily crushed. And Marc seemed bent on a destruction of those feelings with his constant accusations and attacks.

Rita followed Marc into the bedroom. Marc was lying full length on the bed, his ankles crossed, his head propped up on the pillow. He held a magazine in front of his face with one hand, and the bottle of beer in the other.

“Marc … Marc … you stupid child. Can't you understand I'm not any other woman? I'm me. The other's, whoever they are, and whoever they go to bed with, don't count. You're persecuting yourself with straw-men possibilities; the Empire State building might fall tomorrow too, but worry about it when it happens. Can't you see—understand—that I love you, only you, baby? How could you even think that I'd be going with anybody else?”

“It happens all the time, baby.” He did not look at her. “What do you mean, how could I think of it? It's easy if you've seen all the God damn tramps I've seen other guys married to.”

“But I'm not one of them—not me, Marc. Can't you ever believe that? Won't you try to believe that? I'm me—Rita—and I love you and I don't want anyone else.” She knew this mood by now. She knew she had to be gentle and warm, overly affectionate and demonstrative. He'd come off it shortly.

Marc finished his beer and put the bottle on the floor. Rita grabbed the bottle as it toppled and started to roll under the bed.

“There's deposit on these bottles,” she said lightly, trying to change his mood.

“Fuck it! Who needs the two cents? Who needs anything?”

“Marc, baby,” she sat on the floor, next to him, clasping him about the neck. “Marc.… Please believe me, baby. I could never be with anyone but you. Baby, I love you.… Don't you understand that? I love you.…” Her tears soaked warmly through his shirt.

Hesitantly, Marc slid his arms around her back and held her tightly. The sincerity of her pleading moved him. His hurt and suspicion were allayed.

“I want to believe in you, baby. I want to. Really. It's just that you see so much crap around,” he exclaimed angrily. “Do you think I want to be this way? Do you think it's fun?”

Marc removed Rita's arms and stood up. He paced the floor, then stopped and stood facing the wall.

“God damn it, I wish I wouldn't get like this. I don't want to, believe me, baby. I know I get to be too much. Just think what a pain in the ass it would be to you if it was you who was racked by these nutty moods. It kills me to have to worry, to have to doubt you, but I can't help it, baby. I really can't! I just go crazy with jealousy sometimes. It's more than that too, more than jealousy. I'm afraid you'll leave me, afraid I'll be alone—and baby, I need you.” He turned to face Rita. “Forgive me, baby, please forgive me. Help me.”