Once again, Grandma jumped into the fray, this time saving me from losing my temper. “You know, it’s interesting that you would feel that way, Stephen. My mother’s parents told her she had to leave Germany and follow Papa to America. They said her place was with her husband.”
“Jeff isn’t her husband.” Daddy may as well have added, and that’s final!
“He will be my husband someday,” I said. “Jeff asked me to marry him and I said yes.” That earned a big hug from Grandma, looks of stunned shock from my parents.
Daddy’s parting words as he stormed out of the door were, “If you marry Michelangelo Pulaski, you can forget about receiving any financial support from me for graduate school!”
When it was time for Grandma to return to her apartment in the city, she asked me to drive her home. “I don’t get to see Suzanne very often now that she’s away at college,” she told Mom. “This will give us some time together.”
When we were alone in the car, I thanked her. “At least I can escape the anti-Jeff campaign for a little while.”
“You two are very much in love, aren’t you?” she said.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Oh yes. Every time he looks at you, it’s like he’s memorizing you, like it may be the last time he’ll ever see you. Whenever he’s near you he just has to touch your hand, your shoulder, your face . . .”
“Daddy says he’s always pawing me.”
Grandma laughed. “I think it’s more like he’s grounding himself. Otherwise, the electric current that arcs between the two of you might kill somebody. And you look as though you want to eat him for dessert! Have you slept together yet?”
“Grandma!” I nearly steered the car off the road.
“Sorry, I say outrageous things sometimes. You don’t have to answer.”
“It’s okay,” I said when I could speak. “We haven‘t slept together. Jeff feels very strongly about waiting, and so do I.”
“I’m proud of you both, dear. You won’t be sorry you waited.”
“The funny thing is, Bradley Wallace—whom Daddy adored—was always trying to get me to give in.”
“Was Bradley that last fellow you brought home?”
“Yes, the guy with the crew cut like Daddy’s.”
“Ugh! Good riddance to him! He reminded me of my husband, Karl.” She shuddered. I thought of how close I had come to spending my life with Brad and I shuddered too.
“Mom and Dad don’t have a clue what Jeff is really like,” I said after we’d driven in silence for a while. “They just see the outside, how different he is from them. They see a hippie, and they’ve already made up their minds to hate him. I never dreamed they would be so bigoted. But I’m in love with him, Grandma. I’ve never really loved anyone before. Jeff is so . . . he’s so alive! I’m different when I’m with him. I’m more real, more me. He’s made me see life from a totally different perspective and think about things I’ve never thought about before. I’m more creative when I’m with him. Even my professors have noticed the difference. Every story or poem I’ve written since meeting Jeff has been better than anything I’ve ever done before. I love him, Grandma. Mom and Dad just can’t accept that.”
“Don’t let them break you apart, Suzy!” I had never heard my grandmother speak so vehemently. When I took my eyes off the highway to glance at her, I saw tears in her eyes. “Whatever you do, don’t let them break you apart!”
“Grandma-?”
“I never told your mother what I’m about to tell you, Suzanne, but I went through the same thing you’re experiencing. Before I married Karl Bauer, I fell in love with a man my father disapproved of. Patrick’s family was against me as well. If we had married, both sides would have disowned us. In the end, we decided to part. It was a horrible choice to have to make. Patrick was the only man I’ve ever loved. Don’t make the same mistake we did, Suzy. If you love Jeff, then marry him.”
I gazed at my grandmother in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re telling me to defy my parents.”
“I am. Because they’re wrong. I’ll do everything in my power to help you and Jeff. I don’t have much money, but you’re welcome to all that I have. I’ll co-sign a loan for your schooling if you need one, but get married, Suzanne.
Move to Canada with Jeff if he goes. The rest of your family might disown you, but you’ll always have me.”
“You would really do all that for us, Grandma?”
“Absolutely!” I saw the determined set of her jaw and knew she meant it. Then her face suddenly softened. “You know, Jeff reminds me so much of Patrick. Your love for each other is like ours was. Promise me you won’t allow anyone to break you apart.” Her voice broke, and I saw her swipe at a tear.
“I promise.”
“Because if I can just convince you and Jeff not to make the same mistake we did,” she wiped another tear, “then it’s almost as though Patrick and I will have a second chance.”
* * *
“I’m going to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago,” Jeff told me in August when we talked on the phone. “We’re going to demonstrate against the Vietnam War.”
I tried in vain to talk him out of it. “Jeff, Mayor Daley is not only putting the entire police force on alert, he’s even calling in five thousand National Guard troops!”
“That’s all those bureaucrats know—intimidation and force!” I held the receiver away from my ear as he shouted into the phone.
“Jeff, please don’t go. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I love you.”
“I love you too, but the war is wrong.”
“Jeff, listen. . . .”
“I’m sorry, but I have to go there and let my voice be heard.”
When riots broke out in Chicago, I watched the violence on TV, horrified, knowing that Jeff was somewhere in the middle of it all. As the number of arrests and injuries soared, I could only pray that Jeff wasn’t among them. When he finally called to tell me he was okay, that he wasn’t in the hospital or jail, I wept.
“I can’t even begin to describe what happened there . . . what I saw . . . Jeff’s voice was subdued, but I sensed his anger boiling beneath the surface, waiting to explode. I knew he had to release it somehow, but I dreaded the thought of him attending another protest. Instead, Jeff poured all the passion and horror of his experience in Chicago into a painting he entitled Protest.
I sat behind him in a corner of the art studio that fall and watched him create. Sweat poured off him, mingling with the paint that spattered him from head to toe. Music blasted in the background as he worked. When the time came for me to return to my dormitory, Jeff continued working late into the night.
I saw the genius of his creation and stood in awe of his talent. No one who saw Protest was surprised when it won first place in a national art contest to depict the turmoil of the times. Art galleries all across America displayed Jeff s painting as it traveled on a nationwide tour. When Daddy read an article about it in Time magazine, his attitude toward Jeff softened—slightly.
“I really hadn’t thought much about Vietnam until I met you,” I told Jeff as we ate lunch together in the cafeteria.
“You didn’t?”
“No, I was much too preoccupied with my own selfish concerns and ambitions. But now I’d like my voice to be heard too.”
“You’re a writer—write something!”
“‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ and all that?”
“Maybe so. Try it.”
As we talked, one of Jeff’s hippie friends, a shaggy fellow named Moon-dog, came over to our table. “Hey, Jeff. You’re going to the Vietnam Moratorium next week, right? Think I can bum a ride?” Jeff glanced at me guiltily. Moon-dog caught the tension he’d suddenly created between us and backed away. “Right. Talk to you later, Jeff.”
“What was he talking about?” I asked as he hurried off.
“The Vietnam Moratorium? It’s a national day of protest. They’re calling for demonstrations a
nd work stoppages. . . .”
“I’m going with you,” I said.
“I know what happened in Chicago,” Jeff said. “It’s too dangerous. You’re not going with me!”
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do, Jeff Pulaski! If it’s too dangerous for me, then it’s too dangerous for you. You’re not going either.”
He scrambled to his feet to glare down at me. “Like blazes I’m not! I’ve already made plans!”
I stood too. We faced each other eye to eye in spite of the fact that he was six inches taller than me. “Then you’d better include me in those plans because I’m going—with or without you!”
In the end, Jeff and I went to the demonstration together. October 15, 1969, turned out to be a gorgeous fall day, the leaves at their peak of color. “If it weren’t for this rotten war, I’d be painting a whole different scene,” Jeff said as we rode in his Volkswagen to the nearby state university campus for the moratorium.
“True, but there isn’t much drama in a bunch of dead leaves,” I said. He gave me a wry grin.
We arrived with swarms of other students and followed the crowd to the mall in front of the administration building. The students had erected thousands of white wooden crosses all over campus to represent the American casualties. When I saw them, the war struck home for me with full force.
“Jeff, those soldiers were our age. They’ll never have a chance to fall in love and get married and have careers like we will.”
“I know. That’s why I have to fight to end this war—before any more of them die.” He squeezed my hand, and I knew he felt the same impotent rage that I did.
The anti-war rally began peacefully as, one after another, various speakers ascended the platform to address the crowd. Jeff and I pushed our way toward the front. “I have a little surprise for you,” he said when we reached the platform. “As the prizewinning artist of Protest, I’ve been invited to say a few words.”
“Jeff! I’m so proud of you.”
“Wait right here until I’m done, okay?”
I beamed like a searchlight out in the audience while Jeff spoke. He briefly described the experiences in Chicago that had produced his painting, then spoke eloquently about recognizing the God-given dignity in our fellow man. “All men are made in God’s image,” he said. “That includes policemen and the Vietcong, as well as our own American soldiers. Only after we lay down our weapons and end this war will we truly obey Christ’s command to love our enemies.” The cheers were deafening.
“Were you nervous?” I asked after congratulating him with a kiss. He had climbed down from the platform again.
“I was petrified.”
“You didn’t seem to be.” In fact, while he should have been limp with relief, Jeff seemed more tense now than before he’d spoken. “What’s wrong?”
“Listen, Suzanne, we have to get out of here. Now.” His voice was an urgent whisper, but the fact that he called me by my given name conveyed even more than his tone. “There’s going to be trouble.”
“Jeff, wait . . . how . . .?”
“There isn’t time to indulge your Irish temper. Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Then hang on to my arm and follow me. Don’t let go, no matter what.”
He towed me through the mob, heading back across the mall the way we’d come a few hours ago. During that time, the crowd had swelled from thousands to tens of thousands, and now they were all tightly packed into the open area between the buildings, unable to move. There was nowhere for Jeff and me to go, and people didn’t like us pushing against the flow to force our way through. I felt deliberate, painful elbow blows to my ribs and knew that Jeff was suffering even more in front of me. I fought a wave of claustrophobia as I tried not to panic.
“Jeff, wait—this is crazy. We’ll never get through.”
He turned around to face me, panting from exertion. He pulled me into his arms and whispered in my ear. “Suzanne, listen. When I was on the platform waiting for my turn, I overheard the student leaders talking. They have an agenda, and it isn’t Vietnam. They’re going to use the momentum of the crowd to storm the administration building and take over the university.”
“Oh, Jeff.”
“The campus police have called for outside help. I saw the state troopers arrive while I was speaking. They’re wearing riot gear and gas masks. That means tear gas. But that isn’t all—there’s another mob of students in the parking lot behind the police lines. They’re arming themselves with stones.”
“Go ahead and say it, Jeff.”
“Say what?”
“‘I told you so.’”
He smiled in spite of himself and shook his head. “Stubborn, pigheaded Irishwoman! Come on.”
He plowed forward again like a ship through a turbulent sea. There seemed no end to the people. Jeff edged toward the safety of the buildings on one side, away from the center of the mob. Behind us the Students for a Democratic Society leader, who controlled the microphone, spewed out a tirade of recrimination against the college administration. The answering cries of the crowd deafened me.
Suddenly Jeff stumbled backward, slamming into me. The mob had stampeded forward. It was too late to escape. We were trapped in the riot.
“Turn around!” Jeff cried. “Turn around!”
In my panic, I didn’t understand what he meant. Jeff grabbed my shoulders and whirled me around. If I hadn’t turned, the momentum of the crowd would have bowled me over backward and I would have been trampled. But now I couldn’t see him.
“Jeff!” I screamed. “Jeff, where are you?”
“I’m right here. I’ve got you! I won’t let go!” I felt his arm lock through mine. We stumbled forward, bobbing like corks in a flood. It was a horrible, helpless feeling.
I heard shouts and screams behind us and remembered the riot police. The noise grew louder. Then a series of dull thuds sounded, the concussions echoing off the buildings in front of us. “They’re firing at us!” someone screamed. “The pigs are firing at us!” The forward movement turned into pandemonium.
“It’s not bullets, it’s tear gas!” Jeff shouted. “Don’t panic, they’re just firing tear gas!” But judging by the terrified screams and the frantic elbowing all around us, no one was listening to him. I was being kicked and pummelled as people tried to escape in every direction.
There was a gap between two buildings on our left, and as the panicked mob turned to surge through it, Jeff and I were pulled apart like taffy. His hand reached out for me, and I felt him grip my jacket in his fist, then we were torn apart again, the force ripping my sleeve as he tried in vain to hang on. As the crowd poured between us, I struggled to keep him in sight. “Jeff! Where are you?”
Suddenly everyone ducked, raising their arms above their heads as a barrage of stones rained down on us. I caught sight of Jeff for a brief second and saw blood pouring down his face from a gash on his forehead. Pain and shock filled his eyes. He held his hands to his head and tried to stop the bleeding, but it poured through his fingers. He staggered, as if he might faint.
I had to reach him. I had to help him. Frantic, I started toward him again, using my elbows to push people out of my way. It was like swimming upstream against a powerful current. All the while, rocks continued to fall out of the sky like hailstones. I had Jeff in sight. I had almost reached him. Then he disappeared again as a stinging cloud of tear gas blinded my eyes.
The acrid, rubbery smell filled my lungs and I began to cough. As I stumbled blindly forward, a woman in front of me tripped and fell. Before I could help her up, someone pushed me from behind and I fell over on top of her. Immediately, hundreds of people trampled us as if we were rag dolls. Their weight crushed me to the ground. I cried out in agony as pain hammered me all over. I tried to stand and was knocked down again. Someone kicked my head like a soccer ball.
“Help me!” I screamed. “Somebody help me, please!” I couldn’t hear my own voice above the din of cries and screa
ms.
Then a strong pair of arms gripped me, lifted me. Through my tears, I recognized Jeff’s bloody face. “I’ve got you,” he said. “It’s all right, I’ve got you.” I lost consciousness.
* * *
When I awoke, my father hovered over me. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing at a Vietnam demonstration. “Daddy . . .?” A look of immense relief filled his face.
“Yes, Sue. It’s me.”
I heard my mother’s tearful voice. “Suzanne? Is she waking up, Stephen? Oh, thank God! Thank God!” She hurried to my side and took my limp hand in hers. Mine was connected to an IV line.
I looked around and saw that I was in a hospital room. My head throbbed with pain. I tried to concentrate, to understand what Daddy was saying to me, then realized he was asking me a bunch of stupid questions. “How many fingers am I holding up? What month is it?”
“Where’s Jeff?” I mumbled. “Is he okay?” It hurt every time I drew a breath, making it difficult to talk. My father’s face flushed with anger.
“Jeff’s gone! I sent him out of here!”
“No . . . go get him . . . I want to see him. . . . He saved my life.”
“Saved your life! He almost got you killed!”
“He’s probably back at the college by now,” Mom said. She smoothed my hair off my face. “You’ve been here since yesterday, Suzanne.”
“And you’re going to be here a while longer too,” Daddy added. “You needed surgery to stop the internal bleeding, thanks to that miserable hippie, and you also have two broken ribs, a broken collarbone, and a moderate concussion!”
He was much too irate to listen to me, so I pleaded with Mom. “Jeff wouldn’t leave me . . . please go look for his car . . . is his car still here?”
She reluctantly released my hand to peer through the blinds. “Stephen, it is out there,” she said. Daddy muttered something, but when I saw the look on his face I was glad I hadn’t heard it. “I’ll go look for him,” Mom finally said. Daddy sank into the visitor’s chair, arms folded across his chest, as we waited.