Mom found Jeff in the chapel. When he walked into my room with her, he was such a ghostly shade of white she might have found him in the morgue. His left eye was swollen nearly shut, and I saw a row of ugly black stitches where they had closed the gash in his forehead. He wore the same clothes as yesterday, crusted with dried blood. Jeff didn’t say a word, but he bent to kiss me as if I were made of glass.
My father stood to confront him, so furious his words rushed out in an angry flood of pent-up worry and rage. “My daughter seems to love you, Mr. Pulaski, and you claim to love her. How in the blazes could you let her get involved in something like this? How could you put her in such danger?”
Before Jeff could answer I said, “It’s not his fault. I made him take me. He didn’t want to.”
“You see? That’s what I don’t understand,” Daddy said, spreading his hands. “The men in my generation take care of their women. We put them on a pedestal, we shelter them, protect them. If you love a woman as much as I love my wife, you work hard so she doesn’t have to. You want to give her the best of everything. There is no way in the world I would take Grace to something like that riot you dragged Suzanne into yesterday.”
“It was supposed to be peaceful, Daddy.”
“Oh yeah? Why don’t you explain that to all the doctors down in the ER and in all the other area trauma centers? They had to treat thousands of injuries just like yours.”
“It was the police. . . .”
“No, Suzanne. You weren’t trampled by the police. You were trampled by the mob.” Daddy turned to Jeff, their faces inches apart. Jeff hadn’t said a word to defend himself against Daddy’s tirade. The guilt and shame I saw on his face as my father chastised him brought tears to my eyes.
“You want to marry my daughter? You want my blessing? Then start acting responsibly! If you care for her as much as you claim, then make up your mind which is more important—your infantile protests or my daughter’s safety. Grow up, Mr. Pulaski! Get a responsible job!” Daddy gripped Jeff’s arm. “Take care of her properly or—”
Jeff cried out in pain. I didn’t think it was possible for his face to turn any whiter, but it did. He nearly fainted. Daddy pushed him into a chair and forced his head between his knees.
“What’s the matter, son? Are you all right? Where are you hurt?” All the anger had drained from Daddy’s voice, replaced by concern.
“My arm . . .” Jeff moaned.
Daddy palpated it gently. “Does that hurt? Can you bend it? Any numbness or tingling?” Instantly he was a concerned doctor, not an irate father. I saw Daddy in his God-given role of physician, saw his genuine concern for people and for their pain, and I was stunned to see a compassionate heart beneath his arrogant facade. I thought about all the times he had left in the middle of my recitals and birthday parties to be with one of his patients, and I finally understood him.
“Didn’t those fools in the ER examine you properly?” he asked Jeff.
“I . . . no, I wanted them to take care of Suzanne first.”
He helped Jeff from the chair. “I’m taking you down to radiology for an X-ray.”
They walked out of the door together with Daddy supporting Jeff. I knew he was in good hands. Even though it wasn’t his hospital, Daddy would use his powerful personality to cut through the red tape and get Jeff the help he needed. I closed my eyes and rested.
When they returned a while later, Daddy wore a borrowed lab coat and Jeff wore a cast on his right arm. I never did learn what had transpired between them down in the X-ray lab, but I saw that at last they had reached an uneasy truce.
TWENTY-SIX
* * *
Jeff never participated in another demonstration after the Vietnam Moratorium. Moon-dog and all of Jeff’s other hippie friends were furious with him. They surrounded us one afternoon as Jeff and I walked across the campus together.
“How can you sit back and do nothing, man?” Moon-dog demanded. “Don’t you listen to the news anymore? Don’t you care that the government’s gonna take away our college deferments? We’re all gonna be drafted, man, and you’re copping out on us!”
“I’m not copping out,” Jeff said.
“So you’ll be at the rally then?”
Jeff was quiet for a moment, then he shook his head. “No. The rally isn’t going to change the draft laws. It’s only going to get a bunch of us beat up by the cops and arrested.”
“Serve you right if you get drafted, man!” Moon-dog cried as he strode away. “Serve you right if you end up in ’Nam!”
“I’ll move to Canada first!” Jeff shouted back at him.
On December 1, 1969, Jeff and I crowded into the lounge of my dormitory to watch the Selective Service lottery on TV. It would determine his fate. And mine. Blue plastic capsules, containing all 366 possible birth dates, would be drawn one by one from a large glass jar to establish the order in which men would be drafted into military service in the coming year. Jeff’s birthday was June 8.
“It’s the helplessness that bugs me the most,” Jeff said as he grabbed the last empty chair in the lounge. He pulled me down onto his lap. I could feel the anger and tension in his body as we waited for the lottery to begin. “We may as well live in Russia if we’re going to have the government controlling our futures.”
“It’s so unfair,” I said. “It’s like a scene from pagan mythology, where the gods meet once a year in a celestial council to determine the fate of all the people on earth. The mortals are helpless.”
“Gee, thanks. I feel better already,” he said, squeezing my hand.
“Sorry. This is hard for me too. We’re in this together, you know—Canada or bust.” I glanced around to see if the housemother was watching, then gave him a quick kiss. “What is the cutoff number again?” I asked.
“The magic number is 195. If they assign me a number lower than that, I’ll have to leave for Canada before I’m drafted. If my number is higher than 195, chances are I won’t be drafted and we can go to graduate school next year like we planned.”
I saw my roommate and her boyfriend enter the lounge, and I waved them over to sit on the floor near Jeff and me. We listened as all the other couples who had gathered around the television set discussed their options.
“I heard that we’d be better off enlisting if we get a low number,” someone said, “rather than waiting to be drafted. At least you can pick your own service branch.”
“I think I’ll audition for one of the military bands,” my roommate’s boyfriend said. “If I practice my horn day and night, I could probably get in.”
“Do you suppose going to jail is worse than going to ’Nam?” someone else asked.
“Not too many people die in jail,” came the grim answer. “Thousands are dying in ’Nam.”
“Listen, you’d all be better off in Canada,” Jeff said. “I have friends up there already. They say it’s not too bad.”
“Hey, shut up, everybody! It’s starting!”
The laughing and joking turned to eerie silence as we watched Congressman Alexander Pirine of the House Armed Services Committee reach into the jar to draw the first birthday—September 14.
“No!” my roommate’s boyfriend cried out. “Not the very first one!” He sprang to his feet and stumbled blindly out of the lounge, heedless of the people he stepped on. My roommate followed him, weeping.
“This is worse than torture,” Jeff mumbled. I clung to him, my stomach churning.
When they drew number 20 and said “June—” my heart stopped beating until they said “—four.” June fourth, not eighth. Jeff and I held our breath and each other as the numbers slowly climbed toward 195. Sweat poured off of him, soaking the back of his T-shirt, while I sat in the same room and shivered. From time to time, one of the other students watching with us would groan or cry out as his birthday was called. The lounge slowly cleared, the lucky ones, like us, left behind to wait.
A long time later, the lottery finally reached number 194. They still ha
dn’t drawn Jeff’s birthday.
“What a cruel twist of fate it would be if you’re called now after making it this far,” I said. “I can’t watch.” I closed my eyes and buried my face in his chest, waiting for number 195.
“September 24,” I heard the announcer say. I went limp. Jeff was probably out of danger.
“Well, maybe we won’t have to move to Canada after all,” he said shakily. I lifted my face and kissed him, more relieved than he would ever know. With each successive number after that, I felt Jeff’s body relax a little more. By the time they called number 300—March 12—he was actually smiling.
Jeff’s birthday—June 8—was the very last one called. In the order of induction for the year 1970, he would be number 366.
“I guess we won’t need those down parkas and snowshoes after all,” he said, grinning.
* * *
Now that the fear of going to Vietnam or Canada had been removed, Jeff and I applied to the same state university for graduate studies. It had excellent programs in both journalism and art. We were both accepted. We would have to wait two more years before we could be married, but at least we would be together during that time.
I was in my room studying one afternoon when I heard the roar of Jeff’s Volkswagen below my window. He couldn’t afford a new exhaust system, so the sound was unmistakable. I abandoned my Shakespeare notes and ran downstairs to greet him.
“You’re not going to believe this!” he said, waving a sheet of paper. “I was one of only two students, nationwide, selected to study at the American Art Institute under the world-renowned artist Jacob Krantz.”
“The Art Institute? In New York City?”
“The world famous Art Institute!” he said, laughing. He lifted me off the ground and swung me around in a circle, the way the handsome hero always did in the movies.
“You have to accept it, Jeff,” I said when I could stop laughing. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime!”
We were creating a scene in the lounge. Jeff took my hand and led me outside. We climbed into the front seat of his car so we would have a small measure of privacy. “I know it’s an incredible opportunity,” Jeff said, “but you’ll be in graduate school hundreds of miles away. You’re my inspiration, Irish. I can’t paint without you. I can’t even eat or breathe without you.” He leaned across the gearshift and nuzzled my neck, not caring who walked by and saw him.
I stared out at the bustle of students hurrying to and from classes and felt empty inside at the thought of going through the grueling routine of graduate school without Jeff. I needed him too.
“Let’s get married this summer. I want to go to New York with you. I want to wake up beside you every morning.”
He rolled back to his own side of the car and stared at me, his face somber. “I can’t ask you to give up graduate school.”
“You’re not asking me, I’m volunteering. I can wait two more years for school. I can’t wait two more years for you.”
“What about your parents? Your father doesn’t want you to marry me.”
I smiled. “I have a secret weapon—Grandma. She’ll fight Daddy for us. She already told me she would.”
“But your father won’t pay for your Master’s degree if we’re married and-”
“Jeff, I don’t care! Aren’t you listening to me, you crazy hippie? You’re more important to me than graduate school!” Jeff looked at me as though I had just offered to die for him. I began to laugh. “Oh, wow! I can’t believe what I’m saying! This is the reason I broke up with Bradley Wallace!”
“You’re really serious, aren’t you?” Jeff wasn’t laughing. “You’d really lay aside your education and your career to support me?”
I kissed the palm of his hand. “Yeah. I really would.”
“I love you, Irish! I can’t believe how much I love you!” He pulled me into his arms and hugged me so hard I yelped. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he said. “I’ll make sure you get your journalism degree if I have to rob a bank to do it!”
“I believe you would, but let’s try applying for a student loan first.” With that hurdle crossed, my next challenge was confronting my parents. Having Grandma on my side gave me the courage I needed. I waited until graduation day later that spring. Then with Jeff beside me, still wearing our caps and gowns and clutching our brand-new diplomas, I blurted the news.
“Mom, Daddy, Grandma . . . Jeff and I are going to be married this summer.”
“But . . . but what about graduate school?” Mom asked.
“I meant what I said about not paying,” Daddy said. “The day you marry him or anyone else, you become your husband’s responsibility, not mine. That’s why you’d better think twice about this. Finish your schooling first.”
“We’re not waiting,” I said. “Jeff has the chance of a lifetime to study at the Art Institute under Jacob Krantz. I’m going to New York with him.”
“Are you pregnant?” Daddy asked with his customary tact.
“No, Daddy, I’m not pregnant. You can give me the rabbit test yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, Gracie,” Grandma Emma said, “give them your blessing!” She gave me a big hug first, then kissed Jeff on both cheeks. “What a handsome groom you’ll make!” My parents didn’t move. They might have been carved from wax.
“Listen,” I told them, sounding braver than I felt, “you can either celebrate with us or disown us. But either way, we are getting married this summer.”
“I can’t say that I’m pleased,” Daddy finally said, “but I can see that it’s useless to argue with you. You’ve been stubborn all your life, Suzanne.”
The economic and cultural gaps between our two families turned our wedding into a balancing act. The reception had to be classy enough for my parents and their wealthy friends without overwhelming Jeff’s family, who could barely afford to travel from Pittsburgh, much less rent tuxedos. Once again, Grandma Emma saved the day. Whenever Mom started to get carried away with plans for an elaborate reception, I called Grandma on the telephone and cried, “Help!”
“Have you forgotten how poor we once were, Gracie?” she told Mom. “You’ve got to keep things in perspective, dear. Do you want that sweet young man’s parents to think you’re a snob?”
“You’re right, Mother,” she finally agreed. “I suppose the Pulaskis would be more comfortable with an afternoon reception on the country club lawn than with a candlelight dinner and a string quartet.”
Grandma arrived the weekend before the wedding to attend my bridal shower. From the moment she walked through the door until the big day finally arrived, she lectured Daddy relentlessly about social prejudice and young love—at the dinner table, in his study, when he tried to watch a golf tournament on TV—until even I began to feel sorry for him. “All right, Emma, all right,” he said, waving his white handkerchief in surrender. “I admit I was once young and in love with a pauper too. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
At the rehearsal dinner, Grandma sat at the Pulaskis’ table, singing songs in German and Polish. Jeff’s father swore his undying adoration for her. “That settles it, Emma,” he said when the evening finally came to a close. “You’re coming back to Pittsburgh with us!”
But Grandma’s coup d’etat came at the reception when she somehow got steelworkers and surgeons to mingle on the country club lawn. She punched holes in all the socialites’ pretensions, entertaining them with racy stories about rum-running during Prohibition. The hospital administrator’s wife wanted to sign Grandma up to entertain guests at her next dinner party. “I’m having some people over next week, Mrs. Bauer. I wonder if you would be free to come?”
After Grandma taught the country club’s band to play the “Beer Barrel Polka,” none of the guests wanted to go home. “We’re playing for another wedding next weekend,” the bandleader said. “Come back and join us, Emma.”
As Jeff and I prepared to leave on our honeymoon in the Poco
nos, we didn’t know how to thank her. “You did it, Suzy! You defied them all and got married!” Grandma’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Seeing you two together is all the thanks I need. I only wish . . . I wish that Patrick and I had been as courageous as you two. We could have made it work.”
Jeff and I climbed into his Volkswagen and drove away, trailing a string of tin cans. I was Mrs. Jeffrey Pulaski at last, the happiest woman in the world.
* * *
Jeff may have won a full scholarship to art school, but the cost of living in New York City was outrageously high. I couldn’t even consider going to school part time because we needed my full-time income to live. I took a job as a receptionist at the Art Institute so we could commute from our apartment together and meet for lunch once in a while. We were poor—starving-artist poor—but so deeply in love with each other that we didn’t care. The only piece of furniture we needed in our two-room apartment was a bed.
I loved watching Jeff create. I joined him in his studio after I finished work each day, bringing him deli sandwiches or Chinese food or sometimes a pizza. He made a glorious mess while he worked, flinging paint on the canvas with wild abandon. When he finished a piece, he would be both exhausted and elated. I would fill our ancient, claw-footed bathtub with water and scrub him clean, tenderly wiping the paint splatters from his face and beard with paint thinner.
Jeff excelled in his studies. Several of his pieces won awards. But when I saw price tags on his paintings at his gallery showing, I wept. “You can’t sell these, Jeff! They’re your children! How can you sell your children?”
“In the first place,” he said, wiping my tears with his shirttail, “those price tags are wishful thinking. I probably won’t sell any of them. And in the second place, we could use the money. If by some miracle they do sell, I can always paint more, you know.”