“At least they’re not bowing and cooing to idols and statues,” I said. “Gulls don’t strike me as Roman Catholic types.”
“What a thing to say,” Joe said.
“You think I insulted the gulls by comparing them?” I said.
“Oh, Vera,” Joe said. “Stop pandering.”
It was very true I didn’t sound like myself, I was helplessly overshooting to let Forster know I was on his side. And it wasn’t the kind of tone Forster liked either.
“It’s the pigeons that are more papish,” I said. “Bobbing up and down like that.”
“She still prays when she visits her family,” Joe said, about me.
“Only at certain times,” I said. What dolts Forster must have thought women were.
How exposed and absurd I felt afterward. Was I going to launch into flattering stupidities every time I saw Forster? Was I a helpless besotted creature? I had no respect for that sort of helplessness. It fit with none of what I believed or leaned on. Like not being deluded. Like the great question anarchists asked the world: Can’t you do better than that?
I tried a new secret discipline with myself. For each time I thought of Forster, I set aside two cents to give to Joe, who was trying to save enough for us to get our own apartment. I thought Joe would be glad if I took more of an interest, and I could do without hoarding change for silk stockings. But there were too many illicit thoughts to keep track of, and it was too depressing to tally them when I did. So I underestimated and lumped the sums together in a dollar I gave to Joe at the end of the week. “What’s this?” he said, surprised. “You don’t have to.” But he took it.
In August 1927 Sacco and Vanzetti were put to death in the electric chair, and the person who took this the hardest, of all of us, was Forster. He was out in Staten Island with Dorothy, and he went for days without speaking or taking food. He sat out on the bay in his fishing boat, in a stupor of despair. Some nights he slept on the beach. We heard this from Norman, who heard it from their neighbor. The neighbor said he did still like to play with the baby.
But how could it have been news to Forster, what human beings were? Where had he been all his life?
“If he’d grown up in India,” I said, “nothing would surprise him.”
Joe said, “He has a good heart but he needs to toughen up.”
“He’s not weak,” I said. “Why do you think he’s weak?”
“He should be infuriated instead,” Joe said. “That’s the whole point of what we go around telling people.”
“Well, don’t call him weak,” I said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“Is it?” Joe said. “You can stop saying it, then.”
In November Dorothy and Forster had another serious fight about where her beliefs were taking her, and he walked out on her again. I could hardly believe he spent the night on the beach in the middle of November. When he came back, Dorothy wouldn’t let him in the house. She locked the door against him. It was hard to imagine the two of them in such a drama. People who never shouted in ordinary life, reduced to harshness in a religious war. The next day she took the train into Manhattan and left the baby to be watched by her sister, and then she went out to the church in Staten Island and was baptized. She went through all of it alone, with only her friend the nun to be her godmother. We heard all this from Norman, who had a friend who was close with Della.
“I hope she’s happy,” Richard said, not nicely.
“I feel sorry for him,” Norman said. “Outrivaled by Jesus.”
“Bet she finds someone else,” Richard said.
“How could she find someone better than Forster?” I said.
“She just did,” Norman said.
“She has his baby,” Betsy said. “It’s very cruel.”
“Oh, the man will land on his feet,” Joe said.
And I saw Dorothy not long after, pushing a carriage in Washington Square. It was winter again, with the park bleak and windy, and the baby, already a toddler, was almost invisible under the wool blankets and knit cap. A soft pink face with closed eyes and a double chin. “She looks warm,” I said.
“That’s why we’re here, it’s too cold out by the beach,” Dorothy said. “Forster used to chop all the wood for the stove but I can’t manage all that.”
“No. How could you?”
“Forster was a great wood-chopper. He’d hack up a big pile of driftwood for me to use all week.”
“He must miss you and the baby,” I said.
“How do you know?” she said. “Have you spoken to him?”
“No, but Richard has. I think he’s fine.”
“He’s always fine, he’s very healthy. Did he ask about me? Forget I asked that.”
“Richard didn’t say. Forster always keeps his cards close to his chest anyway. You know. Never one for loose talk.”
“He thinks everyone else talks too much.”
“Maybe we do.”
The wind was blowing her hair from under her hat. “I think you love him yourself.”
“What?” I said. “No, I don’t. Not that way. I don’t.”
Everyone knows, I thought. There are fewer secrets in the world than people think.
“I probably don’t really want to know,” Dorothy said. “I’m just forcing you to lie. It’s pointless of me.”
“You have this wrong. Believe me.”
“And then it will hurt our friendship,” she said, “that you’ve lied to me. I’m making a mess, I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” I said.
“Never mind,” Dorothy said. “It doesn’t matter.”
We stood there, in our awkwardness. How much she must want Jesus, I thought, to have let Forster go like that. Our Forster. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t more lies.
Beneath us Tamar made a little snorting noise — she had her face screwed up in distaste at finding herself awake. “Are you thinking of crying?” Dorothy said, bending down to her. “Think again.”
“How big the baby’s getting,” I said. “She’s so pretty.”
“Bigger every day,” Dorothy said. “I can hardly keep up.”
That winter, I was much admired for my willingness to take the dog out to the park in any weather. Bakunin didn’t care how many times we walked past the bench under the gingko trees to see if Forster was there. Dogs like repetition, it doesn’t feel futile to them.
All through the holidays, when Joe and I went out to parties, I looked for Forster, but I only saw him once that season. On New Year’s Eve, one of Betsy’s friends held a masked ball in her apartment. Joe and I appeared as a dog and cat, with socks pinned on for ears. I saw Forster when we came in, leaning against the wall in a corner, but when I went to talk to him, he was already gone. When did he ever like parties? He’d only come before because of Dorothy.
The next day, Joe and I sat around the big apartment kitchen, trying to cure our hangovers with cups of black coffee, while the others slept.
“Everyone liked that party but Forster,” Joe said. “Who comes to a costume party in street clothes?”
“Well, that’s him.”
“You just think he looks so dignified in his regular old jacket. That beat-up thing he wears,” Joe said.
I did think that. Exactly that.
“The thing with Forster,” I said, “is that he’s sure he’s too good for everything.” Was Joe even listening? “I think he has to get over that.”
“Do you?”
“He’s too full of himself by half,” I said. “You know what I mean. That expression of disdain he gets.”
Joe was nodding. It was excruciating to see.
“But people like him change. He can get better,” I said. “Eventually.” I seemed to feel a note of condescension would help.
“You think so?”
“Absolutely.”