December 17, 1966

 

Mike drove back from John Calvin U. for Christmas break. Saturday afternoon, he stopped at my house first before going home.

“How was it?” I asked. “Did it take long? Did you drive all night?”

“No, I left at noon yesterday, drove my roommate to Queens, spent the night there. Then onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It’s fun, driving all by myself. I get to think, listen to music, look at the countryside. It almost started snowing near Columbus. Luckily, we outran it.”

“We?”

He turned sheepish as he went on, “By that time, I was either getting lonely or crazy. I imagined you in the seat next to me the rest of the way home.”

“What did we talk about?” I laughed.

“Well, first you told me how worried you were about college. I said you were the last person who needs to worry, you’re going to get into Radcliffe, and then you can do and go wherever you want from there. You kept perseverating on how much everyone—your mother, your teachers, your friends—expects from you, how you didn’t think you were the person they thought you were. I said, ‘You’re the best possible Sarah Jane Stein there is.’ Then you gave me a box of fruit and disappeared.”

“A Thousand Clowns! Martin Balsam! I love that scene. So I was good company?”

“The best.”

We were downstairs between the den and living room. Mom was boxing up the last of the Chanukah stuff, carefully wrapping the menorah in tissue paper, saving the candles and putting the blue lights in a separate bag, to go down in the basement until next year.

He nodded over to her, turned back to me, and asked, “What’d you get? Anything special?”

“Come on up to my room, I’ll show you.”

My mom must have overheard us, as she cautioned while we walked the stairs, “Honey, keep it down. Your dad’staking a nap.” I guessed she really meant, “No funny stuff.”

While Mike sat on the bed, I took a brown vinyl garment bag from my closet. I yanked the zipper down and extracted a wool suit, dark tan. “Should I model it for you?” When he nodded, I went on, “Well, you’ll have to give me a couple of minutes to change, then.” He didn’t budge, so I added, “Um, wait in the hall, OK?”

After changing, I opened the door, let him in, and paraded around in a clumsy imitation of a fashion model. I skipped the hair toss, knowing what it would do to my unruly locks. “I’m sorry, but I’m not one of those girls who walks around like she has a book on her head.”

“That looks good on you,” he said dryly. “Listen, next Sunday, we’re going to the conservatory to look at the Christmas displays. It’s our family tradition. Do you want to come?”

I started doing a hora and sang, “Tradition! Momma teaches me to sew, then Daddy picks the groom!”

“Huh? What’s that?” Mike asked.

“Fiddler! Fiddler on the Roof? We saw it a couple of summers back on Broadway.”

Mike smiled sadly. “You’re so lucky, you’ve got a family that does things like that. Four kids—it must be fun, when you’re all together.”

“Well, Charlie’s so much older, George never talks, Lisa’s always in her own world, Daddy’s away working—I never thought of us as ‘fun.’ More like together, but apart.”

The week before Christmas, we spent every day together exploring the city. We’d walk all afternoon around his neighborhood or mine. Sometimes we’d visit a department store, or go to one of the new shopping centers and make fun of all the people rushing for presents, buying things they didn’t want or need, just because everyone else was doing it. One night, he drove me through Clifton to look at lights on houses. I’d never done that before, and became mesmerized driving through the fairyland, until I thought about the holiday behind it. Another night, we finally got to see Alfie, walking out talking like cockneys. Mike tried to hold a handkerchief over his arm, waiter-like, the same as Michael Caine. It kept falling to the ground because he couldn’t keep his arm still. He was always throwing it around to point at something or emphasize his thoughts.

I started feeling warm and safe again, cocooned with Michael in our own special world, one where we alone knew what was right and wrong, where no one else had a clue. Walking, we fit together perfectly, his arm around my shoulder, mine across his back, locked at the hips, legs moving in sync. I felt us becoming one person, one being with two minds, merging closer. When he brought me home, we’d hug tighter than the night before, locking ourselves together for what seemed like minutes, ending with kisses, fast and slow, never wanting to let go. Reluctantly, we’d separate, knowing we could start again tomorrow.

I’d heard other girls talking about the boys they went out with, always being asked to “go farther.” I wondered why I never felt that sense of urgency from him, especially since he’d gone away to college, without parents or restraints. He seemed content, happy, even a little overwhelmed simply by what we were doing. I was very relieved by this unspoken attitude, as one of my biggest fears once I found myself growing from girl to woman was having to submit to a boy’s physical advances to get his love. It seemed wrong, unfair. Every bit as smart and capable as any boy I knew at school, I didn’t want someone else to rule my life or desires. With Mike, I felt equal in every way.

 

December 25, 1966

 

Christmas Day was always a bit depressing at the Stein house. On a Saturday, we could hide out at the synagogue; otherwise, we were reminded that, at certain times like this, we very clearly did not fit in. So I jumped at the chance when Mike invited me to the Krohn Conservatory for his family’s annual venture into Eden Park. Snow was in the forecast, so he suggested I could spend the night at his place, in Shelly’s room, instead of risking the drive back at night. The Harrisons picked me up in their blue Buick LeSabre station wagon.

“Where is Shelly?” I asked after we settled into the back seat.

Mr. Harrison­––Jack–­–answered, “She’s in Idaho.” That seemed to be all he was going to say on the subject, so Mike’s mother Grace added, “She’s spending winter break at Sun Valley, working in the cafeteria and skating in the ice show. We’ve gone out in August several times since 1962, for the skating. The last two years, she’s spent the summer there, and met some people who convinced her to come in the winter and learn to ski. She’s growing up so fast.”

We drove under the Expressway, then past Avondale High. This prompted Grace to ask, “Mike says you’re having another good year at school? Are you finding yourself?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but then I remembered: She’s a psychologist. One interested in child development. She was probably wondering how my development was going. With that in mind, I said, “I’m ready to move on. It’s lots of fun, being a senior. But high school is starting to seem small. And about Cincinnati, my mother always said, ‘It’s a great place to grow up, but I don’t think you want to live here, do you?’ I’m looking forward to going back east, to school near Boston and New York.”

The conservatory loomed ahead, a giant greenhouse. Through glass panels covering the walls and roof, Christmas lights sparkled, refracting through the steam condensing there. I remembered that plants breathe—they emit oxygen and water from photosynthesis. One of the many little facts I’d crammed into my head, I mused. How does my brain do that?, I wondered

We wandered around, reading the little signs in front of each plant, ending up at a giant Christmas tree reaching to the top of the central dome. Paper cut-outs—angels, donkeys, Virgin Marys with shawls over their heads—covered the fir, all made, so a sign proclaimed, by children of various elementary schools. I felt like folding a blue six-pointed star and hiding it in the branches.

Outside, Mike’s parents took a little stroll around the park while Mike and I gravitated toward the giant swing set. He shouted, “Watch!” as he rose higher and higher, pumping his legs with each oscillation, almost reaching the horizontal until, finally, at the very apex of a swing, he leaped off, leaning slightly forward, and landed far out on the dirt, feet first, knees bent, and then standing bolt upright. “Come on, go ahead, jump!” he hollered.

Afraid of heights, or anything physically taxing, I tried a dainty little leap from four feet high. He ran to catch me before I fell. “That’s so much fun,” he said, exhilarated. “Didn’t you ever do that when you were a kid?” I watched as he flew off a few more times, trying to best his height and distance each time. I was sure he’d break a leg, but he landed perfectly, with ease. He seemed to revel in his body, in the fun it could produce. I didn’t know if I could match that with him, ever enter that sanctuary.

We sat down on a bench overlooking the Ohio River, the late afternoon winter sun sparkling weakly on the muddy water below.

“Isn’t this where people come to watch the submarine races?” I asked sarcastically.

“Subm . . . wait, they don’t have submarines in the river. Do they?”

“People make out in their cars here. You didn’t know that? Somebody’ll say, ‘What did you do last night?’ Then, ‘Oh, we went to watch the submarine races in Eden Park.’”

He pondered this, saying nothing. Scratching his cheek, he mused, “I don’t think we’re that kind of people.”

“What kind of people are we, then?”

Again, a long pause. Then, “I don’t think you—we—live moment to moment. You always act like you know where you’re going, what you want. You can find fun in so many little things, like watching a play or walking on the beach. You don’t need submarine races to enjoy life.”

“What about you, Mike?”

“Um . . . wait, I talked about you, OK?”

Now it was my turn to think. “Well, here’s what I see. You are the most self-directed person I know. You might be oblivious to this, but lots of people find you scary, unapproachable, because of that. Girls ask me—they wonder what I see in you. I tell them, that boy has a heart, he has a soul, he knows where he’s going, and nobody’s going to stop him. He may act like he doesn’t want anybody to touch him, but he’s warm and loving to me. You see the world so clearly, Mike, and tell me about it so well. I love our time together.

“Sometimes, though . . . sometimes . . .” I hesitated, afraid I was about to say something he might not like. Then I remembered that first rule he’d told me, the night of the party when we walked forever, when I first used the word “love” as I thought about Michael Harrison: Always be honest.

I went on, “I think you get so wrapped up in yourself, you can’t see anyone . . . can’t see me . . . anymore. It hurts, because I want you to see me, see all of me, the whole me. The scared little girl I used to be. The one who thinks she has to be better than all the boys around her, has to do twice as much just to get half of what she wants. School is easy for us, for you and me, but life . . . life, it’s not something you can learn from a book or a lecture. Life has to be lived, and I want to live it for me, not someone else. Right now, I want to live it with you, but I also want to live it with me, from me, from what I see.”

Mike got up, walked to the hillside overlooking the river. Now I’ve done it, I worried; now I’ve pushed him away, right when we’re starting to become us again. I followed, grabbed his hand, and asked, “What?”

Nothing.

I shook his arm.

“Talk to me, Mike!” I shouted.

He turned to face me, took my other hand, and said, “That’s the you I want, I love, Janie. The one who wants to be with me, and be herself. I don’t know how to make that work sometimes.”

We stood there, unsmiling. I dropped his hands. “It’s not fair. Why does it have to be confusing?”

A grin slowly grew, rising from his mouth to cheeks to eyes. “Maybe,” he said, as he pulled us into a warming hug, “maybe that’s why people watch submarine races.”

 

 

Twinkling colored lights broke through the evening mist as we pulled up to Mike’s house in Woodland Park. On a little rise above the street, homemade Christmas decorations cut from sheet aluminum and painted with glossy enamel lined the narrow walk leading to the front door. A pair of four-foot-high children in choir robes, holding hymnals, raised their eyes in song. Several candles, static flames on top lit by inner bulbs, highlighted fir branches across the lintel. Mike, Grace and I all got out before his father parked the Buick in the garage, squeezing in next to the compact Lancer.

Inside, Grace pulled some covered ceramic bowls from, as she called it, the icebox, admitting, “I don’t like to cook.” Turning toward me, she asked, “Janie, would you like to help me here? Mike and Jack can get the table ready in the other room.”

There wasn’t much to do as she put a few things in the oven for reheating and started a pan of water on the stove to defrost a bag of vegetables. I looked around, wondering how I could help. While I pulled glasses from a shelf by the sink, intending to fill them with ice, she wondered, “I suppose you’ve got all your applications finished and mailed in by now?”

“Well, actually, I’ve just started. I’m going to get them done over the holidays,” I said.

“Vassar, Radcliffe, Barnard, and what else?”

“Yes, and Wellesley, too.”

“What do they ask on the applications? I remember Shelly and Mike both had to write an essay. And they needed letters, recommendations from teachers, and someone outside of school, a personal friend. Oh, and of course, all the school grades and test scores.”

My mind froze and raced at the same time. I didn’t know if I could count Mrs.—Dr., I guess I should say—Harrison as a “personal acquaintance.” To me, she was Mike’s mother. We hadn’t talked more than two or three times. I knew, though, that she loved her son and would do anything for him. A letter of recommendation for his girlfriend seemed to flow naturally from that. So I stammered my way through: “Yes. I’ve been thinking . . . it’s OK if you don’twant to, but, uh, could you . . . would you think about writing a letter for me? For Radcliffe?”

She pulled an oven mitt from her right hand, paused a beat, and then said, “I wondered if you could use some help there, but I didn’t want to ask. Of course I will, Janie, of course I will.” Another pause, punctuated by her warm smile. “I want to make sure I put the right things in there. I know I won’t have to talk about all your accomplishments at school, your grades and test scores and activities. Your teachers are already doing that. I know you a bit, so I can truthfully say what a good, warm, and caring girl you are. But I would like to know more about your plans, your aspirations—why you would benefit from and contribute to that university environment. Mike says you’re interested in psychology, in children?”

This was only a feeling I had, more than a plan. “Well, that’s what I’m thinking now, but I don’t really know that much about it. Kids . . . children are special. They need the right direction at the start of life. And I like thinking about how people act, what makes them do what they do, how they fit in with other people, that sort of thing. That isn’t something you get in high school, and I haven’t really done any looking or reading . . .”

“I want to give you a couple of books that might help, Janie. Wait here. Oh, and can you watch that pot so it doesn’t boil over?”

She came back with a couple of books. She placed one next to the glasses I’d filled with ice and water. “Here, you should start with this. He was at Yale, Gesell. He wrote books about the developmental stages of maturation. This one”—titled Child Development—“is a good summary, but if you want more from him, I’ve got all these.” I could see titles such as The Child from Five to Ten and Youth: The Years from Ten to Sixteen. “And of course, you should read Piaget.” She handed me The Origin of Intelligence in the Child. “These two should give you an idea of how to start thinking about all this. Or even if that’s what you want to do. But whatever you do, I know you’ll be great at it. You are so lucky—you have the mind and perseverance to do anything you want. I’m sure you’ll make good choices.”

Mike’s mother saw something in me I didn’t even know was there. “Oh, this is great. I can’t wait to read them. Thank you.” Then I remembered the recommendation. “I’ll make sure you get the form for Radcliffe. Mike’s coming over tomorrow, and he can bring it back, I guess.”

After dinner, we watched the Perry Como Christmas special. Upstairs, I got to use Shelly’s room for the night. I smiled at the old four-poster bed with antique furniture to match. “This is all from my parents’ room at the farm where I grew up,” Grace explained as she fluffed the pillows and fussed with the sheets. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

I put my bag down on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and walked across the hall to sit with Mike at his desk. “Your mom said she’d write me a recommendation for Radcliffe. I don’t know, I feel a little funny about that. She doesn’t really know me. Does she count as a ‘personal or family friend’?”

“She’s always asking me about you.”

“What do you say? What does she say?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve told her much—just what you do at school, where you live, your parents and sister, how you like the New Yorker, movies, plays. Nothing about us.”

“I know. Mothers love to pry, don’t they?”

We chatted a bit more that Christmas night. He opened his window over the garage, the one with a little flat space on the roof outside where he would sometimes sit to be alone. We crawled over the bookcase built onto the wall below, squeezing together into a nook not big enough for both of us. Knees drawn up, cuddling close, he wrapped his arms around me while I squeezed him tight around his waist. He buried his face in my hair. I was glad I’d washed it that morning.

Even our combined body heat wasn’t enough to keep us warm out there for more than five minutes. We struggled back inside, and I returned to Shelly’s room. Once in my Villager floor-length flannel nightgown, white with small red flowers, I crawled into the double four-poster bed. I felt myself drifting away to that place just before sleep, my mind falling into dreams. I sensed him lying next to me, stroking the soft flannel over my back. I jerked fully awake, and found myself alone.