You ask, at last, why I won't
leave you alone. It isn't clear, however, whether this
is a question you want me to answer or if it's your way of declaring that you
would like never again to hear from me. I could ask for clarification, but the
possibility that you will give me an answer that's
honest and direct is so remote I'm simply going to assume you want to know,
after all these years, why I continue to care about you. Note, I said, care
about you, not "leave you alone."
I imagine you're
thinking that I, too, haven't always been as candid with you as I could have
been. I'll plead guilty to that, but I think both of
us share the blame for carefully tiptoeing around each other. We could continue
our dreary little dance, or maybe once and for all
bring it to a close. I so prefer the latter that I'm
willing to go first, and I'll begin with the time before you came to us.
Red and I had been married only a few years, and while we were reasonably happy, I
had grown to dread our visits to Red's family. Running the gauntlet was how I've always thought of those visits to the Hallorans. You know yourself about the noise and confusion stirred up by the Hallorans when they get together, but I will never forget how I was almost knocked off my feet by the big showy hugs of the welcoming committee, which consisted, at the least, of Red's two sisters, his three sister-in-law, assorted nieces and nephews and last but not least, Ma Halloran herself. I pretended not to notice (though, of course, I did) how the
Halloran women, either before or after embracing me, also managed a quick, but
not quite surreptitious peek downwards towards my midsection. I gather that one
of them would then send a signal to Ma Halloran because when she stepped
forward to give me her welcoming hug, she would invariably urge me to put more
meat on my bones. Ma's hearty but hectoring tone when she said that—and the way she ran her hands up and down my back, as if she was hoping to find some bit of excess flesh—always left me feeling that she and all the other Hallorans thought my slender frame was the main reason why Red was the only Halloran to show up at family gatherings without a brood of little Hallorans following behind.
I liked to think that I did an otherwise commendable job of looking as if I enjoyed
visiting with Red's family, even though I never could figure out some of their
customs and folkways, particularly the odd habit some Halloran males had of
greeting each other by getting into a boxer's crouch and trading a playful
punch or two before they ended up shaking hands and laughingly exchanging manly
hugs. I even came to admire how the Halloran women
could carry on a conversation with another adult while wiping the nose of one
child, quelling the crying fit of another and somehow resolving at the same
time the dispute between two squalling brats over the use and ownership of a
particular toy. But after my second miscarriage, I
demanded of Red—my slender frame quivering with rage—that he stop his sisters
and sisters-in-law from their casual banter about the methods, including
castration, they might employ in order to prolong the time between their
pregnancies.
Red was able to mute his sisters and
sisters-in-law, but Ma Halloran wasn't so easily
contained. Nothing was going to stop Ma from taking me aside to deliver godawful motherly chats, the gist of which was that Red and
I should never give up on trying to have a baby. Ma
was particularly incensed at the doctor who told me that I had less than a fifty-fifty
chance of avoiding another miscarriage. To show what she thought of the
doctor's advice, she listed by name and age a
half-dozen children, none of whom, she maintained, would have been born had
their parents been foolish enough to listen to their doctors. It was only three
months after my second miscarriage when Ma reinforced her usual advice by
informing me that she was now praying on my behalf to St. Jude, the patron
saint of lost causes.
"Good old St. Jude," Ma said, putting one of her
beefy forearms around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. "He takes on the
jobs that are too tough for the other saints to handle."
On the drive home that night, Red was as amused as I was when I told him that his mother was asking
for St. Jude's help in increasing yet again the size of the Halloran family,
but I was the one whose laughter ended in a crying spell. Red did his best to
comfort me, assuring me over and over that his mother
meant no harm, but since he was preoccupied with driving through heavy post-Labor
Day traffic and sheets of wind-driven rain that all but flooded the highway, he
could barely take his eyes off the road, let alone offer a consoling kiss or
embrace. Then, once we exited the turnpike, which was just about when the rain
had let up and my crying had abated, Red tried again to tell me why I shouldn't be offended by his mother thinking of me as a "lost
cause."
"I know the stuff Ma says sounds a bit old
world," he said, "but her reliance on St. Jude notwithstanding, she probably
knows as much as most doctors about how babies are born."
My quick intake of breath didn't
really cover my surprise at what Red had just said, but it may have helped
prevent a resumption of tears. Then because I felt Red had gone too far in trying to defend his mother—and because I wanted to get back at him for doing so—I announced, quietly and without fanfare, that I intended to begin the process for adopting a baby. Thus, the impulse from which your fate and mine (and Red's) became intertwined. You might even say, if
you interpreted it broadly, that this was your moment of conception, as it
applied to Red and me.
I wish I could say that Red was delighted at my
announcement, but his response—utter silence—was so unexpected that I asked him
if I should repeat myself.
"No," he said, "I heard you the first time, but
I have a question for you: Have you taken into account the pitfalls and
unforeseen consequences of taking on something like this?"
"From the way you've asked, you apparently don't
think I have," I said. "Well, I think I have—and you know what? All my thinking
has led me to conclude that the benefits of adoption, both for those who do the
adopting and those who are adopted, far outweigh the 'pitfalls and unforeseen
consequences,' whatever they may be."
I expected that my comment would result in a barrage
of questions, most of which Red would then proceed to answer himself. Did you
know that Red's law students even have a word for the verbal rough housing for
which Red is so well known? "We were Halloraned
today," they say, which means that Red first barked out a series of questions
to his class and then proceeded to eviscerate their replies, thereby
demonstrating to them the folly of advancing suppositions that failed to meet
his criteria for a well-reasoned argument, including countless legal citations
as supporting evidence. But this one time, maybe
because he was not standing in front of a classroom of law students, or maybe
because he was afraid I might begin crying again, Red posed only one question,
and that in an even-tempered voice.
"Are you prepared," he said, "for the
possibility of an adopted child's biological parents trying to reclaim their
child?"
I had never thought of such a thing, but before
I had a chance to say so Red was well into the tale of
a couple he knew, the husband a high school friend of his, whose lives were
made miserable by the birth mother of a little girl they had adopted. The
biological mother had somehow discovered Red's friends were raising her
daughter, and that led to her stalking them. Then, one night Red's friends
discovered the biological mother crouched on the roof of their front porch,
peeking in the window as they put their adopted daughter into bed. A
restraining order helped the adoptive parents to keep the mother from impinging
on their property, but they lived in constant fear that she would find some way
to wrest their little girl away from them.
"I'm not sure your friends' experience is all
that common," I said.
Red, sounding
more like himself, responded by posing two questions. "Are you aware that adopted children, when they reach adulthood,
almost always try to reconnect with their birth parents? And do you realize
what usually happens when adopted children finally get to meet their real
parents?"
Red paused a moment after that question, but
again I didn't speak up fast enough for Red so he supplied the answer himself,
asserting that adopted children invariably become more attached to their birth
parents than the couples who had raised them.
"I'd have to see documentation on something like
that before I believed it to be true," I said.
That exchange took place just as we arrived
home, but as we were getting out of our car Red had moved onto a new topic,
specifically, genetic disorders.
"Surely you know," he said, "that certain
familial traits—schizophrenia being one—don't make themselves
known until an individual begins to reach maturity. Have you thought about
that? You haven't, have you? Then there's
the big issue at the center of all this, the adoptive parents' relationship
with an adopted child. Do you really think it can be as close and meaningful as
that of parents who are connected to a child by blood?"
Please note. At the start of our trip home Red
tried to comfort me, but I then made the mistake of proposing adoption without
first clearing it with him. That is as offensive to Red as a legal argument not
backed up by citations from court decisions extending back at least two
centuries. So now, in our driveway, standing in the light rain that was still
falling, Red still tried to convince me that I hadn't
given sufficient thought to the perils inherent in adoption. At times like that Red has this look, somewhat impatient and a
little bit exhausted, of a man who is burdened with the unpleasant task of
having to save stupid people from themselves.
I made a point of ignoring Red's questions that
night and I didn't let him deter me, either, in the
following weeks from proceeding with the long and laborious process of adopting
a baby. But while Red provided information when asked and
otherwise indicated, when necessary, that he was a willing participant in our
desire to adopt a child, he continued, privately, to oscillate between warning
me about the risk of raising a child whose genetic inheritance was unknown and
dim-witted observations in which he likened adoption to an adult version of the
child's game, Let's Pretend.
I tried at first to fend off Red's comments by
accusing him, only half-jokingly, of sounding like a lunatic eugenicist, but I
occasionally found myself thinking what until then had been unthinkable, the
possibility that I might leave Red if he continued to object to adoption. Once,
when Red nearly succeeded in making me feel that I was delusional if I thought
adoption could be a substitute for what he called the real thing, I came close
to issuing an ultimatum: Either he express his
unstinting support for adoption or I would consider our marriage
dissolved.
But unable to decide where I might live after leaving Red—though New
Zealand kept popping up as a possibility—I drew back from the ultimatum because
I knew that divorce would complicate, and possibly end, my effort to adopt a
baby. I also reminded myself that I was the one, not Red, who was most
responsible for our childless state. I sympathized, too, with Red's plight as the
only male in the notably fecund Halloran family (Red, at the time, had 30 first
cousins and 21 nieces and nephews) who needed to resort to adoption in order to
become a father. But more than anything else I sensed
how disturbing it must have been for Red to experience, for the first time in
his life, failure of any kind.
You should understand that the husband of a
colleague who offered to introduce me to Red Halloran promised that I would be
meeting a young law professor who was certain someday to become a justice on
the U. S. Supreme Court. Red was 34 at the time, but at age 31, he had been granted tenure at Boston College Law School, the youngest faculty member to have received tenure in the history of the school. In case the
tenure decision by BC didn't convey to me the full measure of Red's brilliance,
the matchmaker went on at length about Red's first book, a collection of legal
essays, that had been reviewed in the New York Times by a well-known
Constitutional scholar, who complimented Red both on the originality of his
thinking and his knowledge of the law.
This was a time when Red had also begun to
attract the attention of the media, first locally and then nationally, because
of his knack for producing sound bites that cut through the complexity of a
Supreme Court ruling or any other thorny legal issue. I still remember how
flabbergasted the matchmaker was when he heard that I had never seen Red during
one of his appearances on television news broadcasts.
I had just turned 30 when the matchmaker put before
me, as if it was a rare and precious jewel, this chance to meet Lawrence "Red"
Halloran. That was the fall I had moved to Boston to
begin my new job at Bramwell Academy. (Yes, I've been at Bramwell that long,
though back then I worked only on admissions.) I was interested, therefore, in
making new friends, male or female, but I also knew enough by then to discount
the hyperbole of well-meaning matchmakers. This time, though, any wariness on
my part was offset by my curiosity at seeing if this
legal wunderkind could live up to his advance billing.
In less than an hour after I met Red, I had no
doubt that he was likely someday to be appointed to
the Supreme Court. Beyond that I could not explain to
myself in a way that made sense why I was so strongly drawn to a man who
dominated the conversation and who was not particularly attractive, not in a
conventional sense at least.
I knew from a photo given me by the matchmaker,
and in a phone conversation I had with Red, that he was, as he himself told me,
"tall and lanky and with unmistakably red hair." All that was true, but while
his component parts—the red hair that rose up like a coxcomb, his long, lean
face and deep set eyes, as well as his beaky nose—were, each of them somewhat
unattractive, they blended together to give him a rough hewn look. Red's
posture was also in his favor because he's one tall
person who has never preemptively stooped his shoulders just in case he
suddenly found himself in a room filled with low-hanging light fixtures. Right
from the start, in fact, I found it easy to picture Red, garbed in judicial
robes, handing down legal decisions of monumental importance.
My initial
phone conversation with Red had lasted 20 minutes or so and didn't get much
beyond what we might have said had we run into each other at a cocktail party,
but I could tell from the complete sentences and the thoughts neatly bundled
into paragraphs why television news producers had come to depend on Red to be
their legal expert. Nevertheless, I was
unprepared, once I met Red, for the ease with which he could take something
like his assessment of Bramwell Academy (generally
favorable) and weave it into a lively account of the rise and fall of Boston's monied families, with additional observations about
Boston's political culture. He continued on from
there, without a discernible hitch, to recount some of the hijinks indulged in
by his relatives and friends in Boston, all of whom were always running for
office themselves or working in the campaigns of other relatives and
friends.
To this day, I haven't
been able to figure out how Red seems to make perfect sense, even while he
leapfrogs from subject to subject. You've seen Red in action and may have become familiar, therefore, with his unique skill for spouting ideas and facts that have no connection to each other until he somehow molds them into a well-reasoned argument.
But imagine what it was like for me the first time I saw him blend his suggestions for how the Red Sox should strengthen their pitching staff with the reasons why mandatory jail sentences are a terrible idea and then end up, by some trick of logic, with a
convincing argument for law students spending more time studying Shakespeare's
tragedies than the principles of contract law. Red's compulsion to share
with everyone every insight and idea that's ever
crossed his mind has always reminded me of Ma Halloran's insistence on
overloading every plate with more food than any one person can possibly
eat.
I was intrigued by
Red's remarkable powers of explication, but I still recall how his hands, in
constant motion, seemed not a distraction but a perfect complement to each
point he made. But however impressed I was overall
with Red, I did find bothersome the underlying grittiness of his otherwise
resonant voice. Not long after I met him, I began to chide Red about his voice,
accusing him of trying too hard to sound as if he was back on a street corner
in South Boston talking to his boyhood friends. You can tell, since Red's voice
is as gritty as ever, how much my criticism has mattered to him.
Red has likewise ignored my objections to
another habit of his that has annoyed me from the time I met him, and that's
the way he lets out a truncated bit of laughter once he has made a point. It's a verbal tic that has always sounded, at least to my
ear, as if Red is expressing satisfaction at having once again demonstrated the
nimbleness of his mind. I didn't know this when I met him, but it seems that
producers of television news shows were attracted to Red as much for his unmistakable
voice and that little hiccup laugh of his as his mastery of legal
affairs.
But on that first date, and in the weeks that followed, I didn't allow
myself to be distracted by Red's mannerisms or any other shortcomings. I was
too preoccupied with trying to determine why I was transfixed by a suitor who
seemed he might have said the same things, in the same way, whether he was
sitting across from me or a cardboard cutout of someone who resembled me. Why,
I kept asking myself, wasn't I more upset with the way
Red barely allowed me to speak? I'm afraid that question remained unanswered—and
after a while seemed not to matter that much—because I was content to sit and
listen and even occasionally break into applause, my hands clapping like a
trained seal, when Red delivered a line that was particularly funny or
insightful.
I will reveal to you something I hadn't even
admitted to myself at the time I met Red, and that was my growing fear, as I
entered my thirties, that I might never marry or have a child. Maybe it was
some hormonal disorder, but at age thirty I found
myself wanting more than anything else to become a mother. Let me put it
another way: My biological clock probably made me less judgmental about Red
than I had been about the men I had dated when I was younger. That explained in
part why, when it came to Red, I seemed to put aside the maturity and judgment
that accounted for my appointment, at a relatively young age, to the position
of importance I held at Bramwell Academy.
During the
day with a quiet yes or a brusque no, I went about the task of helping Bramwell assemble a student body balanced between young
women who were exceptionally bright but not particularly affluent—thereby
safeguarding Bramwell's reputation for turning out
graduates of great distinction—with others who were less gifted academically
but whose families either had made, or were likely to make, significant
contributions to the school's endowment. At night, however, I was entranced
with this man who
seemed to be daring me to fall in love with him, and I, from the moment I met
him, was more than willing to take him up on his dare.
I've always felt that first evening with Red was encapsulated by his
response when I told him how his friend had described him to me as a future
Supreme Court justice. Having already had a couple glasses of wine, I giggled
when I said that, assuming that Red might also be amused at hearing what his
friend had said about him. I also expected Red might also sputter something
about the absurdity of anyone predicting that a law school professor who had
yet to celebrate his thirty-fifth birthday was destined for such an honor.
Not Red. Instead, half in earnest, half in jest, he listed the ages of the
current members of the Supreme Court while also giving a brief summation of the
state of each justice's health, along with an educated guess about how long
each of them might continue to serve on the Court. He followed that up with a
quick overview of presidential politics and likely candidates for the presidency
over the next decade or so, the relative chances the various candidates had of
becoming President and the kind of person they were likely to put on the Court.
No, he conceded, a boyish grin on his face, he couldn't
see himself, not for another two decades or so, as a possible appointee to the
Court.
Oh, that grin. How
could anyone resist it? Even after all these years, I'm still surprised at the
transformation of Red's rough hewn features when his bushy eye brows rise up a
notch and that crooked half smile comes over his face. Have you ever noticed,
too, Red's consummate timing, that slight almost imperceptible pause between
the time he delivers a line and then, a split second later when he flashes that
grin? Even my solid, sober Main Line Philadelphia parents, couldn't help but be
charmed by their new son-in-law, although initially I think they wondered,
given Red's name, whether I had taken up with someone who was an IRA gunman.
I'm sure you will be interested to learn that the same person whose
verbal facility caused me to refer to him as the Man of a Thousand Sound Bites
seemed to have some difficulty in uttering a simple expression of his love. I
half expected (and feared) that if and when Red did
make such a declaration he might frame it as a finely honed legal argument.
That's why, when he finally told me, his voice lowered to a murmur (and the
grittiness not as evident), how much I meant to him and how he had never felt
this way about anyone before, I placed my fingers over his mouth and made a shushing
sound. I wanted to calm him before he decided to lay
out, at length, a well-reasoned case for why he felt the way he did.
Yes, if it suits him, Red can be subdued and quite loving, which he clearly was, a year or so after my second miscarriage, when he convinced me, his voice lowered—and the grittiness suitably moderated—that we owed it to ourselves to try once more to have a child. I went along with Red's request, but only after he agreed that we would continue at the same time with the application process for adoption. And for a time,
11 weeks to be exact, it appeared that I was about to prove wrong the doctor
who said I was unlikely to carry a baby to term. After that miscarriage, my
state of mind was such that Red didn't dare mention
again any of his misgivings about adoption.
Please don't take this
personally, but I was as doubtful as Red about adoption. The
lengthy wait for you was frustrating in itself, but I wasn't sure any child—again,
no criticism intended—was going to erase completely the memory of my
miscarriages or cancel out all those things, some quite nasty, that Red had
said when he was still trying to persuade me it was a mistake to think we could
raise someone else's child as if it were our own. (What gives you the
right, he once asked, to borrow for your own purposes a child who doesn't really belong to you?) But
any second thoughts I had during the long months of waiting for you and any
recollection of Red's carping and sniping vanished the moment we entered that
nondescript hotel room in Beijing where you were handed over to us. You were
only four months old, but it was obvious that the name, Lihua—which, I was told, meant beautiful and elegant—was a perfect
fit.
And Red, why Red, who had been such a curmudgeon about this adoption
business, became more caught up in the novelty of having a baby in our house
than I ever expected. That in itself, along with my appreciation for his
support and understanding after my third miscarriage caused me to expunge—forever,
I assumed—my brief flirtation with the idea of leaving him.
You, alas, did not care to join in the spirit of
renewal that suffused our household. At first, I
blamed myself for expecting too much from a child who suddenly found herself in
the company of strangers. I then wondered if you sensed that you were on trial
and felt compelled, therefore, to be on your best behavior lest you offend your
hosts. But that didn't explain why I had to make faces
and sing ditties and break into a little dance before you would finally allow
your tiny interlocked lips to form a barely discernible smile.
I even began to think that the solemn, buttoned-up
expression on your face might be an indication that you were trying to judge
our suitability to serve as your surrogate parents. Such a thought was absurd,
of course. You were only an infant. Yet I couldn't
dispel the notion that you looked as if you were a house guest who was well
mannered and polite but who was at the same time compiling a list of her host
family's shortcomings.
Red did not share any of my concerns. In his
view, it was his good fortune (emphasis on his) to have become the adoptive
parent of a child who was so quiet that your crying, a whimpering really, was
like the sound someone might make in trying to attract the notice of an
inattentive store clerk. He was so pleased that you didn't
whine or fuss (or make demands on his time) that he used to refer to you, with
considerable pride, as his little grown-up.
I appreciated as much as Red did that you were
an easy child to care for, but the French word—sangfroid—was a more apt
description, I thought, of your strangely adult sense of decorum. I was
grateful that from an early age your table manners were those of an honors
graduate from a school of etiquette and that I didn't
have to tell you to pick up your room because it was rarely a mess to begin
with. But your thank-you's and excuse-me's always
struck me as being too automatic and it has always rankled me that your method
for giving a hug seemed more the product of careful thought than an authentic
gesture of love and affection. Whether you realized it or not—-and personally,
I've always thought you did—there was a well-defined and predictable rhythm in
the way you would place your arms around me or Red and hold them there for
several seconds, almost as if you were indeed counting, one, two, three, four,
before giving one quick squeeze and then abruptly letting go. Countless times,
I tried to prolong your embrace, but limber and quick, you always managed to
twist your way out of it.
When you slithered away from me like that, I couldn't help but wonder if Red had been right when he
talked of the unbridgeable gap between children and adults who were not
connected by blood. But after a time I began to think
that something—a sense of privacy perhaps, or an inborn reluctance to put your
emotions on display—prevented you from bestowing unconditional hugs on anyone,
no matter your relationship to the person you were hugging.
Perhaps if I had kept that in mind, I would have
done a better job of disclosing to you that Red and I were not your parents. As
it was, I was the one with sweaty palms and a hitch in my voice while you, at
age seven, seemed to be perfectly composed, perhaps too much so, when I told
you that you had been adopted. I had expected that you
might need a moment to absorb the news, but I became flustered when 20, maybe
30 seconds, went by without you saying a word. And
from the expression on your face, I wasn't sure if, or when, you were likely to
respond.
It was panic, then, that caused me to pick up
the atlas lying nearby and to begin prattling on like some half-crazed
government propagandist about how large China was, how enormous its population
and how remarkable the cultural contributions and technological achievements of
its people. You appeared slowly but surely to show some interest in what I was
saying, but still you said nothing. Then, just as I was silently cursing Red
for deciding I was better suited than he was for informing you the
circumstances of your birth, you asked that question about how Red and I had
been able to find you in a place as far away as China and in a country that was
so big.
You seemed satisfied when I said that Red and I received help from some friends of ours who lived in China, but a moment later, I had to blink back tears when you
asked if we had gone to China to get you or if our friends in China had shipped
you to us, as you put it, like a package.
I assured you that we had flown to China to get
you, that we enjoyed our trip immensely and that it was a memorable day,
indeed, when I first held you in my arms. I don't know
what I was expecting from you at that point—a big hug and heart felt thanks?—but
I should have been better prepared, nevertheless, for your question as to whether,
when we were in China, we had met your parents.
No, I said, we hadn't,
but we had been told that both of your parents were university students. In
China, I explained, authorities did not sanction marriage between people in
your parents situation, and thus your parents and the
authorities both agreed that it was best if they gave you to two people who
promised to love you as much as they did.
I could tell from the way you stared back at me,
your dark, luminous eyes never blinking, that you
considered my explanation to be too neat and well packaged. I suppose I should
have left it at that instead of taking your hands in mine and asking you to
understand that your parents only concern was your
well-being. I may have been misguided, too, when I
told you to remember always that your parents wanted to make sure you would
have a better life than they could have given you.
Your quiet, soft-spoken remark—that your parents
sounded as if they were very sensible people—made me feel better, but you
rendered your own verdict on my performance when you firmly but gently
extricated your hands from mine. I've always regretted not reaching out just then to pull you close and give you a big hug, but I held back, quite frankly, because I was fearful you might have pushed me away.
I assumed, as did Red, once I told him about how
you had reacted, that you were not done with questions about your birth
parents, but you must have felt that I was incapable of going beyond the
explanation I had given you because you rarely brought up the subject again. I
think you also understood better than a lot of adults
ever have that certain events, no matter how you feel about them, simply cannot
be undone.
Indeed, your account shortly after that of a
playground squabble made us feel that you had accepted who
you were and what your relationship was to Red and me. What composure you
showed when your little friend, angry because you had beaten her at checkers, said that you were adopted and that you didn't
even belong here. I remember how Red and I laughed when you told us that you
calmly informed your bratty little friend that, of course, you were adopted since no little Chinese girl would have a
father who was tall and had red hair and a mother who was blonde and had a
pinkish complexion.
Neither of us was quite as amused when you
began, soon after the incident with your playmate, to call us by our first
names. I debated whether I should say anything about your decision to address
us as Julia and Red, but I decided in the end that it was best not to make an
issue of it. At my insistence, Red also refrained from commenting on this
development, but not before letting me know how displeased he was to find
himself on a first name basis with you.
"If she's trying to make a point," Red said,
"and I have no doubt she is, she's driving it home with a sledgehammer."
Red said that with the conviction of a man who
now had proof, or prima facie evidence, as he might have put it, to support all
his warnings to me about the inherent risk of being stand-in parents.
Still trying to downplay the matter, I told Red
that this was just a phase you were going through and that maybe you were
simply trying to see how we would react.
Red then accused me of trying to deny something
that was pretty obvious to him. But
before Red could trot out any of his old arguments against adoption, I told
him, "You're just dying to say I told you so, aren't you?"
No, he insisted, he simply wanted me to
understand that each time you called us by our first names,
you were reminding us that you didn't consider us to be your parents.
And what was so wrong about that, I asked. Furthermore, even if we
wanted to, I said, it wasn't as though we could stop
you from drawing a distinction between us and your birth parents. Therefore, I wasn't going to let this first name business bother me. As
for me, I added, I loved and cherished you as if you were my own child and I
had no doubt whatsoever that you loved and cherished me in return.
It was never wise to engage in an argument with
the William J. Lawton Professor of Constitutional Law at Boston College Law
School, but it was particularly foolhardy to do so when the only evidence at
your disposal consisted of little more than robotic hugs and ever so polite
(but heartless) thank-you's. I expected, therefore,
that Red was about to pounce, accusing me, at the least, of gross
exaggeration. But rather than dispute the point
I had made, Red responded with that little giggle and snorting sound he made to
stop himself from outright laughter. The only response I could muster was to
make light of the moment by playfully pummeling Red's chest with my tiny fists.
That concealed for the moment how upset I was with myself for having to lie
about how you felt about me—and at you for having turned me into a liar.
On the plus side, there have been moments when
you made it possible for me to experience the simple joy of motherhood—and for that I'm thankful. I considered it a treat, for instance,
after so many years, to take part in the conversation when my work colleagues
were exchanging stories about their children. In that same way, my visits to
the Hallorans became more tolerable once you arrived
because I felt less like an outsider (and freak of nature) when I found myself
sitting among the other Halloran women, exchanging tips about the raising of
our children. Better yet was the camaraderie and fellowship I shared with other
mothers when we would stand along the sidelines at your soccer games, cheering
and yelling encouragement and performing silly little dances if you or one of
your teammates scored a goal.
But even then you could undermine such moments
because, swift and surefooted as you were when the ball was in play, you tended
to dawdle when it came to joining the heaving jumble of teammates who, with
arms wrapped around each other, were jumping up and down in celebration of a
victory. More often than not you were usually on the
outer fringe of the circle, content to express solidarity with your teammates
by exchanging quick embraces and fleeting high fives.
The way you distanced yourself from your
teammates only reminded me of something I never admitted to Red, that you
viewed your relationship with us as a type of a business transaction. That's not a criticism, by the way. I can well understand
your thinking. You knew, having heard it directly from me, that your parents
had abandoned you. But then, out of nowhere, swooping
down out of the sky, in fact, Red and I arrived to rescue you. Once that
happened, what choice did you have but to repay your rescuers for their great
act of kindness? And what better way to do that than to make yourself into a
model child, one so diligent and well behaved that everyone who knew you, from
teachers and parents of other children to soccer coaches and dance instructors
and camp counselors, unhesitatingly used the word, perfect, to describe
you?
I had little
choice, either, but to join in the praise lavished on you, first for being an A
student and then for being the rare student who consistently completed school
assignments before they were due and who also managed to keep your school
uniform, that tan blazer and white blouse and green plaid skirt, looking as
crisp and fresh in June as it did in September. But I always felt every A you earned—and all the compliments Red and
I received because we were your parents—were your way of paying down the debt
you owed us. And if that was so, perhaps it was
the innate resentment of a debtor towards a creditor that accounted for the
circumscribed affection you displayed both towards Red and me. That may have
explained, too, your precisely calibrated hugs, as
well as the dance recitals at which you executed every step with perfection or
your flawless performance of flute solos at school concerts, all the while
keeping any hint of spontaneity at bay. Duty called. Lihua
responded.
Just once I would have liked to hear you break
out into a fit of girlish giggling or to be as silly as your school friends
when they tried for an entire week to converse only in their own highly stylized
version of pig Latin. Just once you might have also
varied your voice and manner of speaking, too. As it was, you seemed always,
particularly in adolescence, to begin and end your sentences too abruptly, no
matter the content of what you said. As a result, there seemed to be little
difference in tone between your report of a classmate killed in a bicycle
accident or your decision to write a term paper on the need for reform in the
juvenile court system.
At the same time, it may not have made sense,
simply from an aesthetic point of view, for you to be anything but aloof. Your
composure by itself has always made you seem older and more mature than your
peers. Even your facial features, notably those prominent cheek
bones and your clearly defined jaw line, were those of a grown woman
rather than that of an attractive teen-age girl and you have always moved with
the easy grace of someone who benefited from all those years of dance lessons.
No, the more I've thought about it, the more I can see
that you were not intended by nature to be the kind of person who laughed
uproariously at some classmate's goofy joke or threw herself into the riotous
goings-on that took place when a soccer teammate scored a goal.
Red, who knows nothing of child development, was
certain that you were bound to get caught up in the
turmoil and angst of being a teenager. He could sound at times as if he really
believed some hormonal surge would cause you to forsake your studies in order
to join a motorcycle gang. I am no more of an expert than Red, but I argued
otherwise. My best guess, which turned out to be far more accurate than Red's
alarmist predictions, was that adolescence might cause some slight slippage in
your perfect child mask.
That slippage, as I saw it, occurred when you
developed an avid interest in trying to determine which of your friends and
classmates were trustworthy and honest—the word you favored—and which of them
were too easily drawn to trickery and deceit. I couldn't
help but notice that your frequent mention of "honesty," and the importance you
placed on it, seemed to coincide with your discovery that the well-mannered
young men who were so eager to date you didn't always behave in private as they
did in public.
If I had been a typical mother, I would have
tried to learn more about why your encounters with these young men caused you
to develop such distaste for teen-age courting rituals. And
you, if you had been a typical daughter, would have most likely turned to me.
But I held back, sensing that you might think I was being too intrusive, and
you, in your own oblique way, let it be known that only teenagers of lesser
intellect cared about who was taking whom to the prom. I believe that was a
period of time when the word vacuous almost supplanted honesty (or lack
of same) when you described certain of your
peers.
Not that you
lacked the ability to focus on this honesty issue in more dramatic fashion. Who can ever forget that bizarre hairdo you copied from a model (an
Asian one, as I recall) in a fashion magazine? There was little doubt that
having the hair on one side of your head cut above your ear while allowing the
hair on the other side to flow down past your collar bone
would attract a lot of attention. But do you still think more highly of the people
who said they hated it, and were therefore considered by you to have passed
your "honesty" test, than those of us who were too well mannered to tell you
how dreadful your new hairdo looked?
More interesting to me at the time was how much
more voluble you became once you adopted that freakish hairdo. You had just
received your drivers license, but we were still too nervous about you driving
by yourself so I had picked you up after soccer practice and on the way home
you gave me two more examples of girls you knew who were otherwise intelligent
but could be quite stupid when it came to dating.
Given the topic you were discussing, it seemed
reasonable for you to ask how I knew, once I met Red, that he was the man I
wanted to marry. Since you didn't know much at the
time about how Red and I had become acquainted, I began telling you about the
matchmaker who introduced me to Red. But before I got
very far you suddenly switched topics on me. Now, you wanted to know whether
Red and I, when we decided to adopt a baby, had asked specifically for an Asian
child. Or, as you put it, "Was Chinese your first
choice, or were you willing to accept whoever was available?"
Because I was uncertain about what you might be
getting at, I blundered into revealing in greater detail
than ever before my disappointment and heartbreak when my doctor told me, after
my third miscarriage, that there was virtually no chance I would ever have a
successful pregnancy. Why I was that frank with you I still don't know, except
that I felt this was a good time, given your age—and the question you posed—to
share with you the full story behind your adoption. Was I looking for sympathy?
Did I think you would somehow feel more kindly towards me if you knew the pain
and frustration I had experienced with my miscarriages? I don't
know, but I was taken aback when you responded with "Oh, I get it. No miscarriages, no Lihau." There wasn't any need, you know, for you to punctuate that remark
with a giggle.
I hadn't yet decided
how I should respond to that when you appeared to provide me some relief by
returning to your original question, but you varied it slightly, asking me what
made me decide to marry Red.
This time I knew enough to ask why that was of
interest to you, and while your reply, a shrug of the shoulders, may have been
age appropriate, I found it to be unsatisfactory. Thus, I asked you again why
you wanted to know my reasons for deciding to marry Red.
"Well, it's just that you're so independent,"
you said, sounding as if you didn't think that people
who were independent could also be married. I couldn't
pass up this opportunity to offer a bit of maternal advice. Thus, my sermonette
about how marriage didn't necessarily mean the end of anyone's independence
and how respect for each other's independence was an essential ingredient for
any marriage that's halfway successful.
Ah, but on this day, nothing I said was going to
hem you in. So, once again you went off on a tangent,
with that silly question about whether Red and I were madly in love with each
other when we got married. You know something? Out of
the corner of my eye, I detected the tiny smile on your face when you said
that. Did you really think that you had me cornered and that I had no choice
now but to give you an honest answer about how Red and I felt about each
other?
Under different circumstances, I might have said
that I was not technically mad when I married Red but that once I met him, I
wanted more than anything else in the world to spend
my life with this dynamic, overwhelming, unabashedly brilliant man. Now, if that's madness, so be it. I might have
also said that you, too, if you were lucky, would someday know the beauty and
wonder of falling in love in similar fashion, but I'll be damned if I was going
to provide you proof that Red and I were in love, madly or otherwise, when we
decided to get married, not when you might greet what I said with a giggle.
But I didn't want to end our little exchange, so I tried once again to
display motherly concern by telling you that falling in love was unlike
anything you will ever experience, but that anyone who compares love to madness
is overstating the case. Then, when you pointed out (wisely) that I hadn't really answered your question, I countered (unwisely)
by telling you that all married couples eventually learn that, besides being in
love, they must also try to accommodate themselves to each other.
Red, of course, provided me with all the
material I needed to make that point. You know the long hours he puts into his work,
but I don't think you knew until I told you that Red was, and is, the only
member of the law school faculty at BC—and probably other law schools, as well—who
throws away his lecture notes at the end of each school year. Oh Red, whatever
else we might say about him, doesn't coast, particularly when you consider
that, in addition to his teaching, there's his writing and speaking engagements
and all the committees he serves on at BC. Yet, as I explained to you, I've never made demands on Red that hindered him in his
work, and he, likewise, has never interfered with mine. My mistake was the
clumsy wording I used when I said, "Make of that what you will, but Red and I
have tried very hard to make things convenient for each other."
Still, you had no reason for the snippy little
question you posed: "Is that what's meant by a
marriage of convenience?" At least this time you didn't
tag on a giggle or smile.
I argued, feebly, that mutual convenience was
just another way for married couples to show they trust and respect each other,
but you must have felt that you had apparently proven whatever point you had
set out to prove since you allowed our discussion to end on that note.
I wished that I had asked you to explain why you
wanted to know whether, and how much, Red and I loved each other. Since I don't think you had any reason to doubt whether Red and I
were in love, I suspected that you were now focusing your adolescent fixation
with honesty on Red and me. It was as if you, as our little Miss Perfect, were entitled to sit in judgment of whether the rest of us measured up to you standards of personal honesty. That
so irked me that I decided I would do likewise with you. Hence, the foolish
argument we never should have had about your choice of college.
Look, I agreed with you when you expressed your
preference for attending a college on the West Coast because you wanted to
escape New England's terrible winter weather. But you can't blame me for being
skeptical—and for saying so—when you claimed, citing the view of three school
friends and their older siblings, that leading colleges on the West Coast were
superior to elite schools in the east because they were unburdened by tradition
and snobbery.
That California has more warm days in January
and February than Boston is a point I readily conceded, along with my admission
that there were undoubtedly a number of colleges west of the Rockies equal to
the finest colleges in the east. But you were on shaky
ground with this snobbery business, sister. Not only did I consider that to be
shallow and stereotypical thinking—which is something I've never been able to
abide—but I wanted you to understand that it was snobbery of a sort for a
certain high school senior I knew to tell everyone that she considered Harvard
and Yale to be her backup schools.
I guess I hit my target with that latter remark
because you were more animated than usual when you accused me of not believing
the reasons you gave for wanting to attend Stanford or Berkeley rather than any
Ivy League school. You meant, I suppose, that I seemed
to doubt your "honesty." I did, of course, because I didn't
think your quest for educational excellence was the only reason you wanted to
attend only those colleges that happened to be located 3000 miles away from Red
and me. But rather than prolong our dispute I more or
less agreed that I, too, felt as if Harvard's snooty private clubs and Yale's
secret societies were silly and outdated.
It may have been understandable for you, at age
17, to rely on the chit-chat of your peers in
evaluating the strength and deficiencies of various colleges and universities,
but I was not as forgiving when a seasoned academic like Red became both
your defender and cheerleader.
"What I see—and what you should see too," Red
told me, "is a kid who wants to get out there on her own, to test herself. We
should congratulate ourselves on that. Not every kid her age, and an only child
at that, is blessed with that sense of independence—or
parents who encourage her to seek her own path. It's
nice, too, to see a high school kid who's astute enough to realize that you can
get a pretty good education in this country at colleges that aren't located
either in Cambridge, Massachusetts or New Haven, Connecticut.
I liked the way Red seemed to insinuate himself
into this feeling of pride "we" were supposed to feel for having inculcated in
you a sense of independence. This, from the man whose attachment to you
consisted for the most part of bending his tall frame forward so that you could
dutifully drape your arms around him for one of your precisely timed embraces
as he either entered or left the house. I'm convinced that embedded in Red's
brain is a mechanism that allows him to calculate the precise point at which
his concession to me on one big issue—the adoption of a child, say—absolved him
of any responsibility to deal with a countervailing issue, the day to day care
of that child, for instance.
It was too late, with you approaching high
school graduation, for me to dispute Red on his right to claim any credit for
your growth and development. So I told him you were free, as far as I was
concerned, to attend a college on the other side of the world if that's what you wanted. But I was
emphatic in telling him you hadn't been particularly artful in trying to
explain why you wanted to put as much distance as possible between you and
us.
Oh shoot, I might as well admit it. I told Red
you were a rank amateur when it came to lying. Furthermore, I told him you
should have had the gumption to say what you truly meant rather than hiding
behind arguments that were highly suspect. We deserved that much, I maintained,
for having put up with your indifference all those years.
Red granted me that last point, but he continued
to maintain that you had the right to decide on your own where you wanted to go
to college.
And so did I, I said, but I
also told Red that all my years at Bramwell
had made me quite familiar with the posturing of bright adolescent women.
This ability to see through such posturing was particularly useful to me the day you received your acceptance letter from Stanford. Your triumphant yell seemed to
be one you had been saving for years and your leap into the air easily exceeded
any similar move you had ever made either in a ballet recital or on the soccer
field. Maybe you were entitled to your impromptu dance around the kitchen, but who was that gawky, red-headed guy who joined you in exchanging high fives and hip bumps?
I still feel the congratulatory hug I gave you
was more appropriate than Red's histrionics since there was little doubt, given
your academic record and test scores, that you were
going to be accepted at any college you wanted to attend. I also thought it
unnecessary for you to proclaim, somewhat breathlessly, at the end of your
dance with Red, that this was the most memorable day of your life—and to
stare directly at me when you said that.
Maybe your dancing and jumping around loosened
something within you that made you seem more frantic once you got to Stanford.
No doubt your studies and social life (never detailed
to any extent) kept you as busy as you claimed, but I wished you hadn't devoted
your brief and sporadic phone calls to telling us that you barely had time to
talk. Your emails, also brief and sporadic, were such a jumble of dashes and
sentence fragments and abbreviations that they left me feeling out of breath
when I tried to decode them.
I must say it
was clever of you to get that summer job as a research assistant to the
busiest, most prolific member of the Stanford economics department and then to
make yourself so indispensable to him (or so, you claimed) that you never could
get back home for more than a few days at a time the entire four years you were
in Palo Alto. And how clever, too,
after graduation, to parlay your student job (and all the glowing references from
half the economics department at Stanford) into a similar position at San
Francisco's largest bank.
I've promised myself that some day I must find
out if everyone in San Francisco who works in banking is required to work a l2
to l6 hour a day in order to accommodate themselves both to business hours on
the east coast and in Asia. But in the meantime I'll
assume that you and your colleagues agreed, as a condition of employment, to
keep a work schedule that leaves hardly any time for family and friends.
All this
would have been easier for me to accept if I had been more like Red, whose
relationship with you was not unlike that he has with his teaching assistants,
that is, he is genial and good natured towards these young people, but however
close he is to them and however much he appreciates them, he knows that a day
will come when they graduate. Red is so
attuned to the academic calendar that maybe he considered your departure to be
similar to that of his teaching assistants bidding him farewell. But unlike Red, I never accepted the notion that you could
"graduate," from us, even if you wanted to. Going off to Stanford (and so
rarely returning) may have been your adult version of squirming away when I
tried to give you a real and meaningful hug, but this time I intend to hang on
whether you want me to or not.
I like to
think I've been civil and well-mannered and appreciative for the tidbits of
news you've given me from time to time about your life in San Francisco,
although you've also made me feel as if I strapped you to a lie detector the
few times I dared ask whether the "friend" you attended a concert or play with
was a male or female. I understood also, as
you once pointed out to me, that finding a heterosexual male in San Francisco
who is interesting, half way attractive or unmarried isn't
easy. That's why I complied, even though it annoyed
me, with your request to stop asking you outright whether you were
dating.
But none of that was enough to satisfy you. No, you felt the need, my
little Garbo, for one grand gesture that would
finally teach me to mind my own business. You must acknowledge that I showed
great patience the first time two weeks passed by without any response from you
to my calls and emails. I even sympathized when you said that you had been
busier than usual those two weeks because you were preparing a presentation you
were asked to make at a banking convention. So I assumed you were likewise engaged when shortly after
that another two weeks passed by without hearing from you. And
that time, because Red had that speaking engagement in San Francisco, and both
of you had got together for a quick lunch, he was able to tell me all about how
your first presentation had earned you a promotion and raise.
I was not as concerned, therefore, by the
growing duration between phone calls and emails from you this past month or so,
but that was before my encounter last Friday night with Louise Bonham in the
checkout line at Stop and Shop. It was 6:00 and the place was a madhouse, so
much so that I hadn't noticed Louise until I heard her
screechy voice calling to me from two aisles over, asking me how you liked your
new job.
I pretended for a moment to be distracted with
taking some groceries out of my cart, but I felt right away the tingling along
my scalp that usually presages a flushing of my face. Remarkably enough, I
seemed quite in control of myself a few seconds later when I said, "Oh, I can't
say just yet because she doesn't start until next week."
Then, continuing in that same vein, I said,
"What's so extraordinary was that this firm, out of nowhere, came courting her,
and quite aggressively, too, from what I can gather. And
that prompted a counteroffer from her current employer. Imagine that—at her
age, with her limited experience, to have two firms fighting over you.
Apparently everyone else has just discovered what the rest of us have always
known—Lihua's any employer's dream."
"That she is," said Louise Bonham. "And my congratulations to her—and to you and Red also."
How's that for quick thinking on my part? Maybe Louise might have been
able to disprove everything I had just said, but she had paid her bill by then
and was already picking up her groceries, and my purchase had yet to be tallied, so she left the store before I did. That was
fortunate for me since I don't know how I could have
continued to discuss with her something of which I was totally ignorant.
An hour later, when I finally reached you, I
wanted to begin by giving you some tips on how to fabricate a reply on the spot,
as I had done with Louise. Such a lesson might have come in handy for someone
like you because you were not particularly convincing when you told me that you
were so busy wrapping up things up at your current job that you hadn't had a
chance to call Red and me to tell us about your new position and what it
entailed.
I'll accept the explanation you offered about the two weeks of
negotiations between you and your new employer and the need (?) for secrecy
while you were trying to decide whether you wanted to leave banking to join a
management consultant firm. But what made you think
you could foist on me that story about how you put off telling us about your
new job because you have this superstition that jobs and romances and future
plans in general tend to fall apart if they become known before every last
detail has been worked out? If so, why, pray tell, doesn't
the hex you fear apply as much to Louise Bonham as it does to Red and me? Which is just one reason why I think my run-in with Louise was not
an accident. My apologies, however, for hanging up on you the way I did—and
my little outburst before so abruptly ending our call—but I didn't
feel I had anything more to say until I had a chance to talk with Red.
Of that talk with Red, I can only say he wasn't as understanding as I wanted him to be. He had been in Washington that day and didn't get back until almost
ten o'clock, which was fortunate because I had calmed down enough by then to
tell him, in a dead pan manner, that you would be starting a new job and that
you would be earning more money and have a better chance for advancement, even
if you were going to be spending a lot of time on airplanes flying around the
country to advise your clients. I was not as composed in recounting to
him my run in with Louise.
"Think for a moment," I told Red, "what might
have happened if I had said to Louise, which I almost did, 'What new job?'
"
I explained to Red that Louise lives for such moments, that she has always reminded me of a dog that hangs
around under the dinner table, ready to pounce on any fallen crumb or piece of
food. Only with Louise, of course, she's seeking some
juicy bit of gossip she can share with the world. God only knows what innuendo
she would have squeezed out of reporting to everyone that Lihua
Halloran's mother didn't have the slightest idea what
was going on in Lihua's career. I knew Red was going
to think I was crazy when I said it, but I told him that I didn't
feel the incident with Louise was simply a coincidence.
Red gave me what I liked to call his "befuddled
academic" look, which means he was not at all befuddled, but had decided that
his reply, when it came, might sound more thoughtful because he had waited a
very long moment before saying anything. Or maybe he
was truly absorbed in thumbing through the day's mail, consisting, as it
usually did, of fund-raising appeals and sales catalogs. Then, when he finally
spoke—having first tossed aside the mail that had held his attention—he said it
was a good thing you were taking a job that would be more of a challenge to
you.
"Didn't you hear what I just said?" I told him.
"Or do you not care that less than three hours ago I came close to being
humiliated in a very public place?"
"Yes, Lihua was tardy
in letting us know about her new job," Red said, "but that isn't exactly a
capital offense."
My reply to that was to tell him the explanation
you offered, your so-called superstition about premature announcements, was
utter nonsense. Wasn't he as offended, I asked, that
you would use such a lame excuse to mollify us? Rather than answer me, Red went
into the kitchen where I could hear him pouring himself a glass of wine.
When he returned, I asked him the question I had
been waiting to ask since he walked in the door. Was there any chance that you
might have told him anything about the possibility of changing jobs when the
both of you had lunch together only a few weeks before?
"Not a word," he said, his right hand shooting
up, palm outward, as if he was ready to swear an oath. "Mostly, during our
lunch I was urging her, once again, to go to grad school. If she didn't, I told her, she was in danger of always being the
bright, hard-working assistant who makes higher-ups look good. But she has this
crazy notion that she's going to end up sitting in a CEO's chair someday
because she works longer and harder than everyone else."
"You know what drives me batty," I said,
conspicuously ignoring Red's denial of having conspired with you. "It's the
little grin on the faces of friends and neighbors when they ask about her.
'It's been so long since we've seen Lihua,' they say.
Why don't they come right out and ask why she practically disappeared once she
went off to college?"
"I wouldn't worry that much about what neighbors
think," Red said. "Everyone around here knows that we gave Lihua
an absolutely first-rate upbringing. But here's an
idea. Maybe it's time you and I take a trip out there,
unannounced. You know, we just turn up, knock on her door, and when she
answers, we say, 'Surprise! Hey, remember us?'"
Red was amused enough to come out with that
little laugh of his, but I didn't think what he said
was that funny.
"I'm sorry," I said, "but I don't see the humor
in having to fly across the country in order to get someone's attention."
"Okay, I'll withdraw the laugh," he said, "but Lihua's on her own. She's under no
obligation to keep us up to date on her daily activities or even to alert us
when she's about to take a new job."
"On her own or not," I said, "today was pure Lihua—passive aggressive to the nth degree. First she makes sure to keep a vital piece of information to
herself. But she also doles it out—how, I still don't
know—to someone who will, in all likelihood, pass it on to other people before
we learn about it ourselves. That, my friend, is not a coincidence. Not with
someone who is attentive to detail as our little Lihua."
"You really believe that?" Red asked.
"Until proven otherwise, yes,"
Red's reply consisted of his raised eyebrows and
his announcement that he was too tired to dissuade me from thinking you had
made a conscious attempt to embarrass me. A moment later, after finishing off
his glass of wine, he said, "You know, I'd say the best thing for you is to
call Lihua tomorrow and ask her for an apology. She
owes you. It's also a good idea, generally speaking, to air grievances rather
than let them fester."
"Apologies you have to ask for aren't worth a
damn," I said, and with that, I stalked out of the room and went up to bed.
In the morning, after a breakfast in which
neither of us said a word, Red finally admitted that, yes, you had told him
about the job offer you had received, but he had the impression that you were
reluctant to leave banking. That's why, he argued, he
didn't think he was hiding anything from me when you asked him to say nothing
until you had made your decision. What is it they say about law school, that it's where you learn it isn't lying if you've found a clever
way around telling the truth?
I thanked Red for confirming my suspicions, but
I couldn't forget how the night before, with his right
hand raised, he was prepared to swear that he knew nothing about your new job.
It also took me a few more minutes before I got him to admit that you never
said anything to him about your superstition concerning premature
announcements. Later in the day, I received the email from you that was a model
of succinctness on your end, but required a lengthy reply on my end.
And now, even more amplification. About six months ago, for a few weeks, it
seemed as if Red and I might be moving out to the West Coast. After some
prodding from me, Red had begun talking to two law schools in California about
spending a semester or two as a visiting professor. That would give us some
idea, presumably, as to whether we could accommodate ourselves to year-round
sunshine. But then the dean of the BC Law School
surprised everyone by announcing his retirement and Red decided it would be too
unsettling for the school if he were to leave when it was going through a
change in leadership. Translation: Red wasn't about to miss out on the chance
of serving on the search committee that would choose the next dean, and even
though he isn't on the committee I am sure that he has been able, through surrogates
and other unholy alliances, to influence its deliberations.
I've concluded, therefore, that nothing short a of nuclear explosion is
ever going to dislodge Red. Why, moving would force him to sort through his
papers and maybe discard some of the drafts of drafts he insists on saving.
That wouldn't do at all since Red has stipulated that after he dies all his
papers—and by that he means literally every last scrap of paper in his study—be
boxed up and sent off to the Boston College archives.
That reminds me. I've
meant to tell you what this year's student handbook at BC had to say about Red.
It came under a gigantic headline that said, Warning.
"Do not, if
you value life and limb, ever stand between the esteemed William J. Lawton
Professor of Constitutional Law, Lawrence "Red" Halloran, and a television
camera. Professor Halloran has been known to exercise
the same discretion and restraint as a male elephant in heat if he so much as
sniffs the presence of a television camera (or radio microphone or news person
with an open notebook) anywhere within a hundred yards of his presence."
Wasn't that a clever way of describing Red?
I could wait, of course, for Red to change his
mind about our possible move westward, but I am quite capable, as with adoption,
of taking action without first seeking his permission, or waiting for him to
catch up with me.
Indeed, I rather enjoy imagining the rumors and
gossip I'm bound to stir up with my departure. I
expect that a number of Red's friends and the Hallorans
(down to the last third cousin twice removed) will immediately declare him a
blameless victim. Knowing the Hallorans as well as I
do, I'm assuming they will also lavish gobs of
sympathy on "their" Red and call down curses on my head.
I'm guessing that some of the people who side with Red will also whisper
to each other about certain changes in my behavior that they've noticed
recently, whether or not they have. Depending on the person who is spreading
that story, I anticipate a good deal of talk about how I've
become unhinged or may be suffering from the onset of dementia.
I know that nobody will leave it at that.
Puzzlement will lead invariably to questions—discreetly posed no doubt—as to
the real cause for my action. Then, somewhat haltingly, answers will be offered, consisting mostly of half-baked and
tentative hypotheses. How long, I wonder, before the first person will then
declare that he/she never did believe my upbeat disposition was genuine? And once that aspect of my
personality is pried open, I'm betting that certain of my colleagues and
friends will announce that they knew all along that all was not well with the Hallorans' marriage.
I can even name some of the people who will have
the gall to claim that they long ago discerned a grimace beneath my bright
smile. Others of that same ilk—oh, I know their names, too—will attest to
having detected a note of hysteria underlying my ready laugh. So much, then,
for all my efforts over the years to be accommodating and kind, even to pass on
compliments whether or not they were deserved.
I don't mind all these
people speculating wildly about me, but I hope that none of them try to spread
some tale about suspected marital infidelity, either on my part or Red's. That
would be most unfortunate because I have every reason to think that Red has
been as faithful to me as I've been to him. (Can
anyone, by the way, really conceive of Red, who barely found time to tend to
one marriage, trying to squeeze into his busy schedule
an extra-marital affair?)
Yes, I'll miss some of
my friends and neighbors, the house I've always loved and the folkways—some
charming, others maddening—so prevalent in leafy Chestnut Hill. I have even
found myself stopping now and then to look out once more at the view from our
living room of the little wooded area at the end of our cul-de-sac. I've often amused myself by thinking of the half-dozen birch
trees in the middle of that small park as overdressed guests who haven't been
told that the party they would be attending was being hosted by more staid,
more conventionally attired maple trees.
Believe it or
not, one of the more difficult tasks I've had is
deciding which clothes I want to take with me and those I'm willing to leave
behind. I've gone back and forth on a number of items, but when I've finally
made a decision I take care to fold each piece of clothing just as I was taught
the two summers I worked as a sales clerk at the old Wanamaker's Store in
Philadelphia.
I was surprised, in the middle of packing, that I
decided to tuck in among my clothes certain keepsakes, mostly favorite photos
or books or some piece of jewelry. I included a photo, a copy, not the framed
original in the master bedroom, of Red and me on our wedding day. I also
included that photo of you, l2 years old, in your Girl Scout uniform, carrying
the American flag in a Memorial Day parade. That picture is a favorite of mine
because you were so proud to have been chosen as the
flag bearer for your troop that you had an enormous smile on your face. I have
no idea, however, what inexplicable bit of sentiment accounted for my decision
to take with me a group photo taken by Red's brother-in-law, Jerry, during one
of those Halloran family get-togethers I so disliked. Maybe I still marveled
that Jerry, a bit tipsy as usual, had managed to fit some 20 people or so,
including their pets, into the frame.
Don't think, by the way, that I've left you out of my imaginings. Only for
you, I envision something like this. One morning you are leaving your
apartment, more than likely hurrying off to the airport. You are pulling your
wheeled suitcase behind you, you have your phone pressed against one ear, and
then, suddenly out of nowhere, I open the door of the apartment that I've taken down the hall from you and wish you a pleasant good
morning. You are caught off guard, of course, so much so that you momentarily fumble your phone, but catch it just before it
falls from your hand. Then you pause for a moment and check your watch, trying
to calculate, I suppose, if you can spare a moment for me. But
you have that plane to catch, and an important meeting somewhere later that
day, so you are torn (am I assuming too much?) between stopping to talk with me
and continuing on your way.
At which point, I help you. "Please," I say, waving you on with my hand,
"some other time. I can tell you're busy."
That seems, for the moment, to free you,
although as you rush towards the elevator at the end of the corridor, you look
back at me and say something about how you're already
late for a flight to Dallas or Cleveland or some such place. The least I can do
for you under these circumstances, then, is to offer you this assurance.
"Go, go," I say. "We'll have time to talk later. I'm not going anywhere."