“Wasn’t it foggy?”
“Where?”
“In New York.”
“No. Not when I left.”
“Scotch on the rocks.” the waiter said. “Vodka martini, straight up.” He put down the drinks, and then hesitated. “Sir,” he said, “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“That’s okay,” I said.
“But I do have to check, sir, it’s the law.”
“Fine,” I said.
“And the lady did look to be underage.”
“Uh-huh, fine,” I said.
“I hope you understand, sir.”
“I do, yes.”
“Is there anything else you’d like, sir, before I see to my other tables?”
“Yes, bring us another round when you get a chance, will you?”
“I’ll take care of that right away, sir, before I see to my other tables.”
“Fine, thank you.”
“And I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, sir.”
“That’s okay.”
“And sorry to have caused you any embarrassment, miss.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” Jennifer said.
“Okay then,” the waiter said, and grinned in relief. “Everything’s okay then, good,” he said, and went off to get the other drinks.
Jennifer lifted her glass. Without a word, she clicked it against mine and then sipped at the scotch. “Mmm, delicious,” she said. She smiled suddenly. “I’m glad we ran into each other, you know, Mr. Eisler? We have a lot of talking to do.”
“Oh? What about?”
“The abortion.”
I lifted my glass again and took a deep swallow. “Jennifer,” I said, “I really don’t think we need to talk about your abortion.”
“It was your abortion, too.”
“No, it was my son’s abortion. Yours and Adam’s. Not mine.”
“You paid for it,” Jennifer said.
“I know I did. But that was three years ago, Jennifer. And it all worked out fine for everyone concerned. So, if it’s okay with you, I’d really rather not...”
“Oh, sure,” she said, and smiled. “What would you like to talk about, Mr. Eisler?”
“Anything,” I said, “anything at all. How do you like Berkeley?”
“I like it a lot. I mean, I’m not into any of that protest stuff anymore, I’m a little too old for that...”
“Old?” I said, and laughed.
“Well, I mean, you can go around getting your face smashed by The Establishment just so many times, you know what I mean? When you get to be my age, it’s easier to go back to the apartment, kick off your shoes and bust a joint.”
“Mmm-huh,” I said.
“Marijuana,” she said.
“Yes, I know.”
“I thought maybe...”
“No, I understood you.”
“But you disapprove, huh?”
“What gives you that idea?”
Jennifer shrugged and brushed hair out of her eyes. “I don’t know. Your voice sounded kind of funny.”
“I’m aware that all the kids today smoke marijuana.”
“Can’t bring yourself to call it pot, huh?”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be very honest on my part.”
“Oh, are you honest, Mr. Eisler?”
“I think I am.”
“Was the abortion honest?” Jennifer asked, and the waiter came with our second round.
“Here we go, sir,” he said. “Scotch on the rocks, vodka martini, straight up. I’m going to leave you now for just a few minutes to get some of those hot hors d’oeuvres from the serving tray. Would you like some hot hors d’oeuvres, miss?”
“Yes, that would be very nice, thank you.”
“I’ll be back in just a little bit,” the waiter said, and smiled, and hurried off.
I decided I had better lead the conversation where I wanted it to go, rather than entrusting it to Jennifer’s direction. I was no more interested in discussing her abortion than I was in discussing my own appendectomy — less so, in fact. And yet, as I asked her about the courses she was taking and listened to the answers she gave, another conversation threaded itself through my mind and through the discussion we were presently engaged in, my son Adam coming to us in the living room just as John and Louis Garrod were saying goodnight, my son’s blue eyes searching my face, scrub beard growing in patchily, long hair trailing like a Sienese page’s, “Dad, I’d like to talk to you a minute, please.”
And Abby jokingly saying to him, “Adam, if you’re going to tell us that Jennifer’s pregnant, please let it wait till morning, this has been a busy day,” and John and Louise laughing.
And Adam smiling with his mouth but not his eyes and then asking me again, gently but insistently, if I would please come to his room because there was something important he wanted to discuss with me.
In his room (and all of this rushed through my mind as Jennifer opposite me now sipped at her scotch and started telling me about a really great professor at the school), Adam sat on the edge of his bed and said, flat out, “Dad, Jennifer’s two weeks late, and we think she’s pregnant.” And I remember thinking how wonderful it was that my son could talk so honestly to his father, what was all this crap about a generation gap? And I remember telling him there was no need to worry yet, why when I was his age I had sweated out a dozen similar scares, and he told me, “Dad, Jennifer’s never been late before.” And I remember assuring him that perhaps her own anxiety was causing the delay, thinking all the while how proud I was of this marvelous open discussion I was having with my son, and convinced in my own mind of course that Jennifer was not pregnant, Jennifer could not be pregnant.
But Jennifer was.
“... near the school,” she said now. “Are you familiar with San Francisco?”
“Not really.”
“Then the address wouldn’t mean anything to you.”
“No, it wouldn’t. Do you live alone?”
“I’ve got two roommates.”
“Berkeley girls?”
“Marcie’s at Berkeley, yes. Paul’s in the construction business.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Disapprove of that, too, huh?”
“Why should I?”
“You shouldn’t, actually. Marcie and Paul have been making it together for almost a year and a half now. There’s nothing wrong with them living together.”
“I didn’t say there was.”
“I mean, I do have my own room and everything, you know. We’re not like having a mass orgy up there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything of the sort,” I said, and picked up my drink. Jennifer was studying me, and I was uncomfortably aware of her gaze.
“It’s just what you’re thinking,” she said. “Well, you happen to be wrong. Paul’s like a brother to me. I mean, we all walk around the apartment in our underwear, for God’s sake. It’s not what you think.” She paused, searching for a clincher. “Paul even urinates with the bathroom door open,” she said.
“I see,” I said.
“It isn’t what you think at all.”
“Apparently not.”
Jennifer suddenly began laughing.
“What?” I said.
“I just thought of something very funny.”
“What is it?”
“Well, Marcie got a call from home just before the Spring break, you know? From her mother, you know? Who wanted to know what her plans were, and all that. I took the call, you see, and I knew that Marcie and Paul were in the bedroom, you know, doing it, you know. So I carried the phone in — we’ve got this real long extension cord — and there’s Paul on top of her, and I handed the phone to Marcie, and I said, ‘It’s for you, dear. It’s your mother.’ ” Jennifer burst out laughing again. “What a great girl! Do you know what she did? She took the phone, Paul still on top of her and not missing a beat, and she went into this long conversation with her mother about plane connections and reservations and some new clothes she’d bought — oh God, it was hilarious!”