Young Jane Young

  Another thing that bothers you is the fact that he says he will end his marriage after the next election. You know that congressmen run for office every two years. As long as he’s a congressman, will there ever be a good time to end his marriage? He’s always in the middle of a campaign.

  If he becomes a senator or a governor, which you know he would prefer, then there would be more wiggle room. This isn’t outside the realm of possibility. He is very ambitious, and his constituents in Miami love him. He’s Jewish and good on Israel. He speaks Spanish, which goes a long way in South Florida. He served in the military and is always fighting to expand veterans’ benefits. He was a teacher and came out against testing as a sole measure of a school’s progress. He photographs like a model. Babies love him. They are almost obsessively drawn to him. The point is, he ticks a lot of boxes for people. Even outside Florida, the congressman’s getting to be a star. It’s only his second term, but he broadly caucuses, and he’s already serving on several committees and subcommittees. No one thinks Aaron Levin will be a “lifer” in the House, although there’s already talk that he might make a good Speaker of the House someday. Considering all this, you believe his career would survive his marriage ending, assuming it was all handled properly.

  You need someone to talk to about all of this.

  If you talk to Charlie.

  If you talk to your mother.

  You tell your mom about the affair, and she begs you to end it. She literally gets on her knees. You have to tell her, “Mom, please get off the floor.” Once you’ve told her, she won’t talk about anything else. You regret telling your mother. You had told her because you had wanted to discuss the relationship with her, as two adults. You had things you wanted to know—why doesn’t he want to have vaginal intercourse with you, for instance? But she is so hung up on the morality of it that she’s useless. She rails on about your good name—“It’s all you take to the next life, Aviva!”—and your grandmother who survived the Holocaust and whatever else she can think of. Finally, you cry and tell her that you’ll end it even though you know that you won’t.

  You accept that you have no one to talk to. The congressman has been pretty adamant that you need to keep your relationship a secret. “None of the other interns,” he says one night, “not your roommate, no one.” And maybe he’s right. The only person you would have even trusted to tell was your mom, and look how that turned out. Because you have no one to talk to, you begin to write about the relationship in your blog. Just a little. You’re coy with details. You’ve been watching a lot of Sex and the City, and you think of yourself as a younger, more political Carrie Bradshaw.

  Data analytics tell you that you have about six regular readers of your blog. They occasionally leave supportive comments. One even asks if you’re based in Florida. You do not reply.

  Maybe you thought having an affair would be exciting, but mainly what it is, is lonely. Your days are spent waiting for the nights, which is the only time you ever see him. And it’s not like it’s every night, or every other night, or even once a week. It’s when he has time, usually late. Less generously, it sometimes feels like he is a toddler with many toys and you are a doll he occasionally remembers to play with. Sometimes, he is in D.C. for weeks at a time, and this is almost better because at least you know there isn’t a chance you will see him. But those weeks are bad, too. You miss him constantly. You miss him even when you’re with him.

  You never argue with him, because you know—in the part of yourself that knows—that he will end your relationship if you put up any kind of fuss. You have no power, and he has all the power. And this sometimes frustrates you. But you kissed him. That was your power, right? You asked for this. And this, you believe, is the price you pay for being with an extraordinary person.

  The holidays are coming.

  If you buy him a present.

  If you don’t buy him a present.

  You buy him a Chanukah present even though Chanukah is a children’s holiday. He doesn’t get anything for you, but you don’t expect it. You buy him a leather-bound edition of Leaves of Grass.

  “This must have cost you two weeks’ salary,” he says, kissing you.

  “You don’t pay me anything,” you remind him.

  “We should do something about that,” he says. “I love it. This is the best gift I’ve ever received.” He kisses you again. “Did you have to rob a bank?”

  “I’m a camp counselor during the summer,” you say.

  “Oh God, your camp counselor money? Now I feel terrible.”

  “I’ve got some bat mitzvah money left, too,” you say.

  “Stop!” he says. “You’re killing me.”

  “It wasn’t that much money,” you tell him. “Anyway, I’m glad you like it.”

  “Do you know what the title means?” he asks.

  You realize you have no idea. “Something to do with nature?” you say dumbly. He often says that you are mature for your age, wise, and you always want to impress him with the things you know. (But you are young and there is still so much you do not know!) “We studied ‘Song of Myself’ in school, but I’m not sure that we ever talked about the title of the collection,” you say.

  “In Whitman’s time, ‘grass’ referred to cheap or low quality literature. So, he’s making a little joke. ‘Leaves’ like the pages of a book. It sounds pretentious, but actually, it’s the opposite of pretentious.”

  He was an English teacher before he went into politics. He often gets in teacher mode, which is adorable and annoying at the same time.

  You are in a Days Inn fifty miles outside of Miami. You don’t even know the name of the town. The bedspread is made of gold and green polyester. There is a reddish stain on the wall beneath the air conditioner. The air conditioner produces a meager, moldy cool and has a steady drip. You love him. You tell him you love him.

  He says, “I will always treasure the time we spent together.”

  If you take his words as a sign to break up with him and then you actually break up with him.

  If you wait for him to break up with you.

  Maybe sensing the rhythms of the school year, he breaks up with you just before summer. He does it at the office, which you find appropriate. In the part of you that knows the truth, you didn’t think it would be forever. Still, it comes as a shock. He says, “We’ve had a great time, Aviva, and in another life, maybe. But the timing is wrong.”

  You start to cry, and you feel like a dope.

  “No,” he says, “don’t cry. It isn’t you. I like you more than I probably should. I think your future is enormously bright. But the more I think about it . . . I think I’ll sleep better if . . . I think we’ll all sleep better if . . . I’m not comfortable being the kind of man who sleeps with a subordinate. I know I’m not your immediate supervisor, but still . . . It’s selfish of me, and it’s wrong. I wouldn’t like it if someone treated my own children that way.”

  “We’re just having fun,” you say. You’re starting to ugly cry.

  “You sure don’t look like you’re having much fun, kid,” he says.

  “Do you want me to quit?”

  He wipes your tears on his sleeve.

  “Of course not,” he says. “You’re one of the best interns we’ve ever had. Now that the school year’s over, Jorge wants to promote you to a paid staff position. I’m not supposed to be the one to tell you. Act surprised when you hear, okay?”

  You nod.

  He pats you on the shoulder. “We’re lucky,” he said. “We got to have this time, and we didn’t ruin anyone’s life in the process. It doesn’t feel like it right now, but one day, you’ll look back and think this was a very good outcome.”

  An outcome, you think. When I was young, I had this affair, and wow, what an outcome!

  “You’re smiling about something,” he says.

  You’re a big girl, and you pull your shoulders back, and you don’t put up a fuss. Later, you yell at your mother, but you know it isn’t
her fault. You yell at her because she’s there and because she’s your mother and she’ll take it.

  If you continue working for the congressman.

  If you stop working for the congressman.

  You continue working for the congressman. You are good at this job, and your discretion when you were still having the affair means you don’t have any reason to leave. You congratulate yourself on your maturity. In the past, you have had trouble seeing things through.

  You occasionally date, but you don’t meet anyone you like as well as the congressman. Charlie Greene has lost interest in you. In the years to come, he runs a presidential campaign, and then he becomes chief of staff, and then he semiretires from politics and moves to Los Angeles to become a consultant on an award-winning political soap opera. Sometimes you still see him as a commentator on news channels. He never changes. You will wonder, How is it that he gets to do so many things and he never changes? How is it that you have done so little and you change like a second hand on a clock? Why is he allowed to be constant, the eternal Charlie Greene? Why are you the protean Aviva Grossman?

  Roz Horowitz sets you up with her nephew, Archie, who has recently passed the bar and has just begun practicing human rights law. “It’s the ‘good person’ kind of law, not the scumbag kind of law,” Roz says. “You’ll have a lot in common. And he’s not bad looking, Aviva. Trust me, he’s your type.” You wonder how on earth Roz Horowitz would know what your type is.

  You ask your mother if she told Roz Horowitz about the congressman. Your mother says, “Aviva! Of course not! I’m a vault!”

  Ultimately, you go on the date because your mother wants you to go and because it has been four and a half months—you have pined enough. Archie is handsome—in the looks department, he does remind you of the congressman—and funny and passionate about his work. (Maybe you should apply to law school after all?) You can’t fault his taste in restaurants (Japanese-Cuban fusion) or in clothes (conservative, but his socks have lobsters on them). Still, you don’t sense much chemistry there.

  “I had a great time,” Archie says over dessert. “And we could definitely hang out again. But you should know, I’m gay. I’m not entirely out to my extended family. I should have told Aunt Roz, but once you tell her anything, you might as well have made a press release.”

  “I can’t ever tell who’s gay and who’s not,” you say. “My old roommate used to say I have no gaydar.”

  “Well, thank God for that. I loathe people who have gaydar. It’s just a kind of prejudice, but it’s got that funny word, so people think it’s funny. You know what people who have great gaydar usually are? Bigots.”

  “Maybe we can start a campaign against gaydar?” you say.

  “Let’s do it,” Archie says.

  “It’s not as hard as you think,” you say. “You publish a few op-eds in prominent places, or you know, whatever places will have you. The first pieces can be of a more humorous bent. Anything to raise awareness. Maybe you get lucky and people start blogging about the issue. You call local TV stations. They’ll probably ignore you, which is why you try to recruit a gay-friendly politician—maybe it’s a city councilman representing South Beach or any area with a fair number of gay constituents—to introduce a piece of legislation or even just a proclamation about ‘casually homophobic hate speech, particularly the use of the word gaydar.’ You go online and you try to find a message board of like-minded individuals to come out with signs and rally against gaydar.”

  “Gaydar, get yar ass out of here!” Archie suggests. “Out of har?”

  “Yeah . . . ,” you say, smiling and wrinkling your nose. “Or something better even?”

  “I’ll work on it,” Archie says.

  “At the hearing, you get a photogenic high school kid to tell a story about how he or she has been negatively impacted by use of the word gaydar. You call the news stations again. This time, they come. You’ve got a politician, a high school kid, and a mob of people with signs. You’ve got the mayor or the head of the city council having to say the word gaydar awkwardly over and over—”

  Archie makes his voice sound square and conservative, “So, what precisely is the gayyy-darrrr?”

  “Exactly. I mean, it’s great footage. Like, how can they resist us?

  “Even if you fail to get gaydar officially banned—which you won’t because no one’s going to ban a word—by the time you’re done, you’ve at least raised awareness, maybe, one percent. And maybe some of those people will pause before they say gaydar.”

  “They’ll pause and say, ‘Now I know this isn’t PC . . .’ and then, they’ll say it anyway,” Archie says.

  “But think how validated you’ll feel by that clause. It’s a win!”

  “I don’t know if this is depressing or inspiring,” Archie says.

  “It’s definitely inspiring,” you say. “Lots of drops in the bucket.”

  “Would you call all of this politics or press?” Archie jokes.

  “Press,” you say, and then you think better of it. “Maybe they’re the same thing.”

  “Hmm. Is this what they’re teaching the interns these days?” Archie asks.

  “I’m not an intern anymore,” you say. “By the way, no one even knew what a blog was when I got there. They’re all so old.”

  “I know,” Archie says. “There’s this ancient lawyer in my office, and he’s asked me to show him how to turn on his computer five times. I’m like, dude, there’s a switch. It’s not that hard.”

  Archie drops you off at your apartment. You’re living off campus this year. You’re about to unlock your front door when the congressman calls your cell phone. “I’m in your neighborhood,” he says.

  “Why?” you say.

  “I thought you could show me your new place,” he says.

  If you invite him over.

  If you make an excuse (“I’m in Boca” or “I’m tired”).

  “Come on over,” you say. If you’re honest with yourself, one of the reasons you moved into an off-campus apartment and didn’t get any roommates is because you hoped something like this would happen. You set the stage, and you knew the player wouldn’t be able to resist the call of the theater.

  “We missed you tonight,” he says.

  The election is in a month, and there had been a town hall meeting that night and you hadn’t gone.

  “I had a date,” you say.

  “Oh yeah? Someone I should be jealous of?”

  “No,” you say, as you take off your blouse.

  “It’s good,” he says. “It’s good you should date. I want you to meet someone nice.”

  You take off your skirt.

  “You look pretty,” he says. He goes into your bathroom and he turns on the faucet.

  You put your hair into a topknot. You had it blown out for your date with Archie, and you don’t want to mess it up.

  “Your absence was noted tonight,” he calls.

  You turn on the television. A rerun of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire is on.

  The question on the screen is:

  Henry VIII split from the Roman Catholic Church after it refused to grant him an annulment so he could marry which woman?

  a. Anne Boleyn

  b. Jane Seymour

  c. Anne of Cleves

  d. Catherine of Aragon

  “Anne of Cleves,” he says, as he leaves the bathroom.

  The answer is Anne Boleyn.

  “Darn,” he says. “I always get the Annes confused.”

  You set a pillow on the floor. You lower yourself to your knees, and he unzips his pants.

  If you continue seeing him.

  If you tell him it’s over.

  You slip back into seeing the congressman. Once a week. Sometimes, twice. It’s a bad habit, you know. You know, you know, you know. You end up feeling like the congressman’s garbage can or his suitcase. You feel functional, if not beloved.

  You consider quitting your job even though you still love it, even t
hough you’re good at it, even though you derive self-esteem from the fact that you’re good at it. You liked being Aviva, the girl who could find anything.

  If you quit the job, maybe you’ll be able to quit him, too.

  If you don’t quit the job.

  If you quit the job.

  You know you should quit your job, but you decide to wait until after the election. You start taking steps, though. You put together a new résumé; you put out feelers.

  In November, he is reelected.

  He doesn’t end his marriage, not that you ever thought he would.

  Click here.

  You don’t see him for a while, and you don’t even miss him.

  You decide you will leave your job in January. It’s the last semester of your senior year. This seems as good a reason as any to leave.

  You go to your supervisor. You tell her you’ll stay until the end of the month to train someone new. “I’m sad to see you go. We’ve really liked having you,” she says. “Is there anything I can say to convince you to stay?”

  “No,” you say.

  She takes you downstairs for a frozen yogurt. Farouk says, “Hello, Aviva!”

  “She’s leaving us,” the supervisor says.

  “No one works as hard as me, except Aviva and the congressman,” Farouk says. He brings you and the supervisor a plate of free baklava.

  “I have to say,” your supervisor says, “I never thought you’d be such a success that first day. You’ve really opened my eyes about some of my own prejudices about interns.”

  You feel irritated even though you know she’s trying to be nice. “Why?” you say. “Because you didn’t like my outfit?”

  “Yeah. It sounds shitty when you put it that way. I guess so. We get a certain kind of girl, from time to time. Pretty girls who think it’ll be fun to have a political adventure, because they saw, like, Primary Colors or something. But once they find out how boring it is here, they don’t want to work.”