Max invited us to his sister’s house—my house—for hot cider and skating on the Frog Pond at the Boston Common.
“Has your sister done her tree already?” Lindsay asked. The girls were home from Wheaton and we were having drinks at the Maples’.
“She doesn’t have one,” Max said.
“No tree?”
“They’re Jewish,” I said. Max smiled at me. My stomach did a little flip when he looked at me like that. I was dismayed to find that the more I saw Max, the more I wanted to see him. Even when he was right there, I walked around with a vague longing for him.
Max had changed. There was more of the actor about him. But as long as I could remember what it was like to have him twist toward me in bed, I couldn’t pull myself away. I don’t think it was hope, exactly, that kept me there; it was more like obsessive fascination—maybe it was hope.
This, if anything, explains why I didn’t leave. I had thought, very briefly, about going to Palm Beach, but quickly dismissed it. I even started looking for apartments in Boston, but Winnie said she couldn’t do without me. Even though I knew that no one was indispensable, Winnie’s marriage was on shaky ground and I felt that the presence of someone else kept it from sliding downhill.
“I know they’re Jewish,” Heather said. She was sitting on the arm of Max’s chair. Those girls couldn’t get enough of his physical proximity. They were always snuggling up to him like stuffed animals. “But why don’t they have a tree? Don’t you even have a Hanukkah bush?” she asked.
Max patted her leg in the accepting way of a man who has become successful and is now ready to round out his world by marrying a silly girl. He couldn’t see past their inexhaustible delight in him, past the family embrace. I think some romantic love works that way: you fall not only for the person, but also for a vision of yourself in their world.
The day came for the skating party and I wasn’t thrilled about being a guest in my own home. Still, there was enough curiosity in me to make me join the group. We all piled into Charlie’s car and headed toward the city.
When we walked into the front hallway of the house, I got ready for a jolt to my solar plexus, but it didn’t come. The hall was unchanged except for Max’s sister, Emma, who came forward to greet us. After we took off our coats and banged any excess snow from our boots, Emma put her arm around me and leaned in.
“Jane, I want you to feel just as at home here as you would if we weren’t here.”
That was impossible, but to say so would have been neither gracious nor polite. I tried for an authentic smile and thanked her. Emma had draped our staid sofas with exotic throws and pillows. The look was American Pedigree Meets Casablanca.
Though I had only been out of the house for a little less than a month, it looked more faded than I remembered. Maybe I was seeing it through fresh eyes. It had always had the shabbiness of old money. Did the worn damasks, chintzes, and satins look different to me now because their shabbiness would soon spring, not from old money, but from no money at all?
My college friend Isabelle had been shattered when her parents had sold the family home. It was as if they were selling off a childhood that could never be recaptured. She was thirty-two when it happened, but she still felt as if something was irrevocably lost. I had expected to feel that way, and was surprised to find that my prevailing feeling was relief.
Emma looked at me warily. How much had Max told her about us?
Max’s sister, having married Joseph Goldman, was now Emma Goldman.
“What could I do?” she said. “I loved the guy. His name is Goldman, so I took it. I suppose I didn’t have to, but I’m traditional about some things.”
“I don’t get it,” Heather said. “What’s wrong with the name Emma Goldman?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Emma said, looking at Max.
“She was a famous anarchist,” I said.
“A what?” Lindsay asked.
“An anarchist,” I said. “It’s someone who believes that government and law should be abolished.”
“Good thing we have Jane to translate for us. We’d never be able to cope,” Lindsay said.
“Anyway, it would never work,” Heather said.
“What wouldn’t?” Emma asked.
“You can’t get rid of government.” Heather said this with great authority. “It’s the silliest idea I ever heard.”
Joe Goldman joined us. His entrance interrupted the conversation, a very good thing under the circumstances. I didn’t know what a producer was supposed to look like, but it wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that Joe Goldman was typical of the species. His walk was brisk, his smile welcoming. If there was something anywhere to be produced, he looked fully capable of producing it. We followed him into the living room, where he had contrived the perfect winter scene: a glowing fire, cookies warm from the oven, caramel apples. The cider, both hard and soft, was served in glass mugs and garnished with sticks of cinnamon.
“No food?” Max teased.
Emma smacked him on the shoulder with her palm. “Is this not the perfect winter tableau?” She curtsied and spread out her hands, palms up.
“Did you steal it from the set of Little Women?” he asked.
“Steal? Don’t be silly. We don’t steal, we borrow,” she said.
Emma wore her happiness lightly but carefully, like a lace shawl. Even if she hadn’t been Max’s sister, she was the type of woman I would have wanted to befriend.
Joe and Emma stayed behind by the fire while the rest of us trooped to the Boston Common. Heather’s friend Buddy showed up, so there were three couples—and me. I was used to being the odd one out, but it felt worse when Max was there. The Wheaton girls were wearing short pleated skating skirts. I wore black jeans, a little too tight for skating. I’m a good skater and know what to wear to be comfortable, but I was aiming for a little more style than usual, and my aim wasn’t good.
Lindsay walked beside me on the way to the Common.
“You used to know Max, didn’t you?” Lindsay asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I think he’s wonderful. It’s amazing that he hasn’t tried to sleep with me yet. He’s such a gentleman.”
“You haven’t even been out alone together, have you?” I asked.
“Well, no, but that could be easily arranged.” She slipped on a piece of ice and grabbed me to keep from falling. She pulled me off-balance, but I managed to stay upright.
“How is your writing going?” I asked.
“I haven’t really done anything during the vacation. We’ve been so busy. I wanted to ask you. You are so good at figuring things out. You seem to know more than we do, about almost everything. What do you think of me and Max?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking,” I said.
“Do you think he’s as crazy about me as I am about him?” She looked up at me with a face so young and free from blemish I couldn’t imagine a world in which any man wouldn’t be crazy about her.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“He kissed me, you know,” she said. “Last night as he was leaving. And it wasn’t just any kiss. It was a real kiss, if you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I did.
We sat on benches around the edge of the pond to put on our skates. I had thrown mine into the trunk of my car when I left Louisburg Square. Not everyone would think that skates would be necessary to their winter, but I usually skated at least once a week.
I watched the three couples, the men kneeling to help the women on with their skates. As I leaned over my own, I pictured Jack Reilly at my feet. Jack Reilly would wear his leather jacket, even though it was too cold to wear only leather. His cigarette would hang from his lips and the smoke would drift past my face as he bent over my skates. He’d make Max look conventional. I had to find Jack Reilly, if only to give me something special to announce to the Wellesley College girls after Christmas.
I finished lacing my skates, flew out onto the ice, and executed a single axel. I twirled, reversed, did crossovers and backward crossovers. I soared in my own little world.
“Look at Jane,” Heather said as she struck out with a tentative step. “She’s a terrific skater.”
Lindsay, who was a little more sure on her feet, skated over to me. “I hope when I’m your age, I’ll know half the things you know.” She spoke loudly and tilted her head toward Max.
“Me too,” Max said.
“You’re as old as Jane, aren’t you?” Lindsay asked.
“No one is as old as Jane,” Max said. With that, he took off and skated to the other side of the pond. Lindsay followed him, and when she caught up to him, she slipped her arm through his.
I took a step, then another. I didn’t know what he meant. No one was as old as me? My mother always said I was born old. Maybe that’s what he meant.
I started to spin and I spun and twirled in smaller and smaller circles until I got dizzy and crashed on the ice, splayed like an idiot rag doll. The wind was knocked out of me and I couldn’t get up right away. When I looked up, it was Max who was staring down at me.
“I’m okay,” I said. I must have been blushing right through my clothes. Max took my gloved hand and helped me to my feet. Everyone else who had been skating on the pond, or even sitting on the sidelines, had stopped to look.
“Okay, show’s over,” Max called out. Max kept my hand in his as if he had forgotten he held it. He wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he was gazing toward the Public Garden, which was frozen over now.
Max glanced down at our enjoined hands and let go. He turned toward me.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.
We were standing so close together I could feel the coolness of his sigh on my cheek. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought we were just one breath away from a kiss.
But then Lindsay barreled toward us and, not being too sure on her feet, smacked into Max and he had to hold her to keep her from falling.
“Is Jane all right?” she asked in a loud voice. Everyone was still staring at me, and though I hated to be the center of attention under any circumstance, it was worse when it originated in an embarrassing fall.
Max examined me as if he was trying to read something in my face that had not yet been written. “If you’re okay, then.” He skated off with Lindsay and slipped his arm around her waist. She beamed up at him.
I stood alone in the center of the pond and watched everyone skating around me.