Nothing Is Quite Forgotten in Brooklyn (11 page)

“All right,” said Con. She could freeze the meat. Her mother would eat it eventually, if she didn't burn the house down, cooking. “When?”

“An hour?”

“An hour.” Peggy turned and Con said, “And could you lend me a few Tampax?”

“Sure,” said Peggy. She went down the stairs. It would be all right. They could talk about families. Con was wistful to think of having a mother who fed her daughter lasagna—who still looked after her daughter.

 

Though she'd have to be at the office a little early the next morning for a staff meeting, Con stayed up late Tuesday night. When the phone rang at 3 a.m. she struggled out of the blankets and hitched herself across the bed to answer. Then she realized it was her cell phone, next to the bed on the other side. Joanna's voice was tense. “Mom, this is my phone call. I'm in jail. I was arrested.”

“You were
what
?” said Con, though she had heard her daughter and was already struggling to stand, feeling for pen and paper.

“I was stupid,” said Joanna, “but also I was absolutely right.
I went to a bar because I was so upset about Tim. The TV had something about Iraq, and I said something. This guy started arguing—” There was a pause. “Okay, okay. They're telling me to hurry it up. Nobody in this state believes in freedom of speech. I got into an argument about Iraq and I was arrested.”

“Have you called Tim?”

“No, I'm not dealing with him. I called you.”

“What do I have to do?” said Con.

“Bail, I guess. It's all right. They're putting me in a cell with women.”

“I'll get you out, but I just wish you hadn't—”

Now Joanna was really crying. “Mom, get me out. Just get me out.” Someone from the jail came on the line and explained to Con what to do. Nothing could be done until morning. She hung up, stunned. She sat up in bed for ten minutes, poised to run, as if she could rush to North Carolina in her pajamas. But then, even though Joanna was in jail, Con slept. The alarm was already set to go off early. She woke before it, dressed quickly, had a bowl of granola, and left the house. On the way to the subway she began making calls on her cell phone, trying to reach a bail bondsman. When she called the police station to say bail would be coming, Joanna had been released. Con tried Joanna's cell phone. “Hello?” came her voice.

“Where are you?”

“I'm eating at a diner.”

“What happened?”

“I have to go to court. There's going to be a fine. Will you pay it?”

“Of course, but what the hell happened?” If Joanna had to
go to court, there could be a delay. Maybe Con should fly down there.

“I was mad at Tim so I checked into a motel, and there was a bar. I had a few beers.”

“Were you drunk?”

“No.”

“Did the owner ask you to leave? They said the charge was refusing to obey a police officer.”

“Why should I do what that cop told me to do? Trust me for once, okay? I wasn't drunk. I was just a little high. You know how you get high from crying a lot. You're sort of broken up in pieces from crying, and as soon as you drink anything, the pieces float off in different directions. But in fact I'd had one and a half beers when all this happened.”

“What happened?”

“They had a TV on and I said ‘Shit' when there was something about more deaths in Iraq, and the man next to me said, ‘At least they died for a reason.' And I turned toward him and said in—not a loud voice, but a very clear voice, ‘They died so our government can control Iraqi oil.'”

Con was proud. She wondered if she'd have had the courage to say anything.

“So he turned nasty, and I kept arguing—and the next thing I know, the bartender is calling the cops. I kept talking about the First Amendment but I swear they never heard of it. They just called the cops.”

“They do have a right to ask you to leave,” said Con. “It was private property.”

“That's crazy,” Joanna said. “What about the First Amend
ment? Mom, they never heard of the First Amendment. Literally never heard of it. I kept asking them and they didn't answer. Finally I realized the answer was no, they never heard of it.”

“Was the jail horrible?” Con said. She would explain later. The cops couldn't legally ask her to stop speaking, but they could ask her to leave.

“It wasn't so bad. The other women were prostitutes, and they were used to it. They keep toothpaste in their handbags. They lent me toothpaste, but I had to use my finger instead of a brush.”

“Baby,” said Con.

“You have to call the ACLU. You have to do something.”

Con took a breath. “It would be hard to prove that what they did was illegal,” Con said. “If the bartender asked you to leave, and the cops asked you to leave, and you didn't, the arrest was legal.”

“The cops didn't ask me to leave, they just told me to shut up.”

“They did?” said Con. “That could make a difference. Were there witnesses?”

“No, nobody was on my side. But we have to do something.”

Con sighed. “What will you do now?” she said.

“I can't come home, because I have to go to court, and I can't go back to the apartment, because Tim and I are very very broken up. But as soon as I pay the fine I'm taking the first flight to New York. You should have kept me there and bought me alpaca. You're going to be paying for a lot of stuff.”

“Okay,” said Con. “But Marlene—”

“That's all right.”

She should say something more. She took a breath. “Honey, I'm glad you spoke up but I don't think there's much we can do about it.”

“Of course there is,” said Joanna. “All I did was give my opinion.”

Her cell phone died. Con couldn't help liking the quiet, walking the last half block to the office. At least Joanna was free. When she looked again, the phone was working. She and Peggy were supposed to have dinner that night, but Con decided she shouldn't go. She should stay home and make phone calls and do whatever Joanna needed to straighten out everything. She called Peggy as she approached her building. “I need to change our dinner date. Joanna was arrested.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” said Peggy.

“It's outrageous,” said Con, and told the story.

“You have to do something. Call the local paper.”

“I know. But can you have dinner tomorrow, or next week?”

“No, I can't change. She's in jail right now?”

“No, but I think I should make myself available.”

“You can still have dinner with me. Keep your cell phone on and if she needs you, she'll call.”

“I can't.”

Peggy sighed. “How about Friday?”

“I can't,” said Con again. “Marlene's coming. And the place is a mess, and Jerry is coming for a week. It's already Wednesday and hordes will descend by Friday. I shouldn't have made a date with you in any case.”

“Marlene! I have to see Marlene!” said Peggy. She had met Marlene once or twice. “Is she going to rebuke rude people in the street and explain nutrition to waiters? Whatever it is, count me in.”

“All right,” said Con. “Saturday, I guess. But I really need to change our dinner date.”

“You don't. You really don't.”

“I'm not just being an overprotective mother,” said Con.

“Yes, you are.”

“Well, let's see what happens,” said Con. Sometimes Peggy could not believe in a feeling she didn't have. It was the only thing wrong with her.

Con arrived an hour before the staff meeting, and tried to get some work done. The meeting was distracting, but after it was over she found herself agitated again. She was angry that her daughter had gotten herself into complicated trouble. She turned on her computer and went to the
Times
site. Bush was having trouble talking about the casualties of the war, and his strategy was not to talk about them at all. In Iraq, a total of 375 Americans had died through Tuesday. On Tuesday, November 4, 2003, the dead were Daniel A. Bader, 28; Steven D. Conover, 21; Maurice J. Johnson, 21; Brian H. Fenisten, 28; Joel Perez, 25; and Bruce A. Smith, 41. Smith was the only man to die who was older than Joanna.

She wrote to Jerry, explaining what had happened, then turned to her work. She'd received some citations from a lawyer who was working on a similar employment case, and reading them had been part of the task she'd set herself for the week. She had to read slowly and think hard. When something
turned out useful, she knew, it wouldn't be for reasons she had expected. If it were obvious, everybody would be talking about it already.

She returned to the day's messages. Now one had come in from Jerry. “Do you think it had to do with race?” he wrote. Sometimes Con had to remind herself that Joanna might be identifiable as a black woman. Her skin was slightly darker than Con's, and her dark hair had what could be considered—what presumably was, except that plenty of Con's Jewish relatives had similar hair—an African American frizz.

“How far are we going with this?” she wrote back to Jerry, but she knew the question didn't quite make sense. So far they had gone no distance at all. They had not talked to a reporter, or consulted a local lawyer, or phoned the ACLU or some other organization—the NAACP? She didn't want to go any distance, even if the bartender and the cops
had
told Joanna to shut up. She wanted Joanna to stop drinking. She wanted Joanna to set her mind on her art, and on turning her art into making some kind of living, and on finding a man she didn't despise. In a moment Con had invented a hypothetical storyline in which Joanna gave up two years of her life to a vain pursuit for justice in North Carolina.

 

Peggy's lasagna smelled good. She came up the stairs with the hot pan between two potholders, and a handful of tampons in her pocket. She offered to lend Con money. “I don't know why I didn't think of that before.”

“I'm newly rich,” said Con, “but my mother is out of her mind and I'm divorcing my husband.”

“You're not having a good week,” said Peggy. She preceded Con to the kitchen cabinets and set the table while Con made a salad with dressing from her mother's refrigerator. Peggy listened to both stories, then began telling stories about men she'd loved. It had all gone badly but Peggy did not seem to hold that against herself or the men. They ate. “I'm freezing,” said Peggy. She was wearing a thin blouse.

Con went for one of her mother's afghans. Fourteen years later, she wouldn't remember her mother's knitted and crocheted objects when Joanna mentioned them, but in 1989 she knew they were there. She didn't like them. Crocheted afghans were too lacy to provide warmth. Knitting was more promising but Gert knitted so loosely that clothes were invariably too big and blankets shapeless.

Peggy wrapped one of Gert's afghans—mustard, orange, and green—around her shoulders, and looking at it, Con rather liked it after all. It looked lively, draping over the striped tablecloth, which was more stained than it had been on Monday morning, but still pretty. They drank wine. In the middle of the salad preparations, Peggy had run downstairs again and returned with half a bottle of chianti.

Eating and drinking, Con was surprised to hear herself talk in considerable detail about Jerry and her decision to leave him. Somehow it connected to Peggy's stories, and she told one in response about her present boyfriend. “I'm the kind of woman with a married boyfriend,” Peggy said, and Con remembered that she'd said something like that before. “Half the married men who are accused of having little nitwit girlfriends have lovers who look just like me. The rest really do have little
nitwit girlfriends, except for a few who have young brilliant girlfriends.” Peggy was used to being unhappy. Yet she feared it, and feared it for other people, and it turned out that was the connection between her own situation and Con's. “It will be hard for you,” she said. It was a simple observation but somehow they'd talked through many subjects, arriving at it, arriving at what seemed like agreement between older friends than they were: the shared sense that it was hard being unhappy but intolerable not to keep taking chances on happiness.

“I'm not doing this just because he didn't tell me what Joanna was going to do.”

“I know. And it's not because you're jealous that he took her on a trip and not you.” Con was not certain that was completely true, but let it pass. Peggy continued, “First husbands are unbearable. I never got married because I'd have to start with my first.”

Con laughed, and Peggy said, “No, I mean it. First husbands just drive you crazy. Second husbands are better—all my friends with second husbands are always compromising and making rules for their marriages. They say, ‘We had a long talk and from now on I'll visit his parents only once a year' or ‘We're scheduling sex.' All that negotiating is exhausting.” She reached for a crisp edge of noodle from the remaining lasagna—which was not great, but good—and bit off a piece of it. “What I want is a third husband,” she said. “My friends who have third husbands—it's all cherishing and forgiving, day and night.”

Con laughed at her again but she was still thinking about herself and Jerry. “When we're apart, I'll be able to take deep breaths,” she said.

Peggy said, “All I want in life is to take big breaths. One guy or another—somebody's always making my diaphragm clench. Even at my age.” She stood to leave.

“My mother's friend—” Con said. “Her friend wants power of attorney.”

“Really? You'd trust her that far?”

“Oh, I can
trust
her,” Con said. “I've known her all my life. But I should do it, if anybody does.”

“She brought it up?” said Peggy.

“Well, the doctor said something.”