People need their own interests. Their own validation. A couple can’t be together twenty-four hours a day all the time. But having kids is great. My three children were educated right from the start. And this is the result. My son Greg is a CPA, Stew is a dentist and David is following in my footsteps.”
It was obvious his youngest was special to him. And David felt the same. The day I met David he told me he was having dinner with his “Daddy” that evening. He wanted to spend as much time with him as possible since his dad suffered a severe heart and kidney problem. Diabetes. Looking at this man aglow, I’d never have known it.
“I’m going to give David a buzz too,” he said. “Knowing him, he fell back to sleep.” As he moved toward the phone he looked at me. “Just wait. After tonight we’ll have you married off!”
“Oh!” I wanted to sound surprised, as if the thought had not occurred to me. However, I’d been thinking about it a little more seriously all summer. Well—not that seriously, and not with much intensity. A boyfriend, a steady boyfriend, a relationship, that was important. That was imminent. But marriage? When college ended, I considered myself too young. I was always “just in my twenties.” But now I was thirty. That was an age, as everyone made certain to keep reminding me. But more important, I liked how this felt. I liked David, his mother, and I was really liking his dad. They liked me, and art and culture. It was everything all rolled into one. And best of all, they lived in the city!
About half an hour later David arrived. His dad pulled him around in a big bear hug.
“How’s my boy? Sit down next to me and tell me how you are. You look great.”
I watched the two of them, side by side, and noticed similar mannerisms. Particularly a certain way they would convey comprehension.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Sid.
“Uh-huh,” nodded David.
I could see David thirty-five years from now. I began wanting to see David thirty-five years from now.
As we got ready to leave, David asked to borrow one of his father’s ties. Sid and I watched him knot the tie in the mirror.
“He’s the apple of my eye,” his dad told me. “I love all my children very much and never played favorites, but my youngest, this one, he’s the apple of my eye. I adore him.”
We went across the street to David’s aunt and uncle’s apartment for dinner. The table in their dining room was surrounded by family. His cousin, Paul, was there with his wife, Judy, who was seven months pregnant with their first child. We ate and laughed and enjoyed ourselves. After dessert Sid sat next to me and looked to his dad, Max, a psychiatrist who was talking with David.
“That’s Dr. Friedman Number One,” he said, pointing to his father, “Dr. Friedman Number Two,” he said, pointing to himself, “and Dr. Friedman Number Three,” he finished, as he pointed to David. “Three Dr. Friedmans!”
“Isn’t it nice to spend the holiday with your family, David?” Kitty asked several times during the meal.
“I remember when all these kids were little and running around this table,” said Sid. “Now everyone’s grown up and most of them live away. This is what’s left of the New York contingent. It’s up to this generation to carry on. Start the cycle all over again.” It was a warm family. Smart, cultured and most of all, welcoming. For the first time I realized the implications of being, virtually, an only child. I didn’t have much of a relationship with my stepbrother, Lenny, or his wife or kids. Unlike David’s family, with siblings and the promise of nieces and nephews and generations to come, in mine it would be up to me to start the cycle all over again. I was feeling eager to oblige.
The evening came to an end. We rode down in the elevator and said our goodbyes on the street. Sid walked over to me and David. “Take care of her,” he said. “She’s bright, she’s articulate, she’s a nice kid. Take care of her.”
Then Sid turned to face me. “Take care of him, okay?”
We all hugged goodbye. Sid looked at us once more.
“Take care of each other.”
“So…” I said, as David and I walked west towards the park. The evening was a complete success. I had been uncertain as to how things were progressing between us, and I thought tonight had clarified them. It certainly had for me. I knew where I wanted to stand. I turned to David, expecting him to put his arm around me with possession and pride. I had been completely accepted by his family. His dad. I smiled at him.
“That was fun,” I said, breaking the silence. “Thank you.”
“Yeah,” he said, putting his hands in his pocket. “I don’t make that much of these things. I’m glad you came though. I’m worried about my dad. Okay if we walk back to your place instead of a cab?”
There it was again. Nothing that said this is great and nothing that said it was over. We walked south on Central ParkWest toward my apartment on 78th Street. We walked in the relationship silence. Not the good kind where you know you can’t wait to get each other home and into bed, but the ambivalent kind. The kind where one person has more power because they know they’re the one who’s holding back. But they’re not telling you they’re holding back, and since you don’t really know this for sure, and you certainly don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing and create a problem that may not even exist, you decide you’re overly sensitive, paranoid, insecure. All of the above. You have no choice but to smile sweetly, keep your unspoken agreement in the relationship silence, and hope the other person will break it. That any second it will be broken by him seductively pushing you up against the bricks of the next building, off to the side of the burgundy awning, gently moving his hands across your cheeks, pulling back your hair and tenderly, deeply, passionately kissing you and kissing you and whispering in your ear, “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go home.” On the other hand, you could suddenly find yourself on 78th Street turning right to Amsterdam Avenue and wonder how you got there.
“David, do you want to come up?” The telling moment that can make or break it.
“Sure, I’ll stay.”
We rang for the elevator and I thought about the summer. One night in July I had just gotten back home after a weekend on the Cape. I felt really good, my skin was a little tanned and my hair had that great windblown look from sailing. I was wearing a pair of white shorts and a short sleeveless green tank top. My best friend Jane had come over. I looked at her when the buzzer rang.
“Expecting someone?” she asked.
The abrupt sound of the buzzer caught us in the middle of “haircut interruptus.” Jane had just gotten back from ten months on the road doing the lead in a national tour. She played a character in a fairy-tale musical where people appeared to be destined to live unhappily ever after. Despite her better judgment she got her hair cut in Detroit, just before returning to New York. We were in my bathroom pushing her thick black hair in every direction desperately trying to make it right. We had met on a national tour years earlier, rocking and rolling our way through high school in the fifties. Jane was full of passion and insight, loved her work and family. And even in the face of the haircut drama had the great vision to know that ultimately “it would grow.” I really admired her for that. I pressed the intercom and heard David’s sleepy voice.
“Hey—can I come up?”
“Yeah,” I said, before even checking with
