Chapter 7

I have always been delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning.

—J. B. Priestley

My tenure at Smith did not have a particularly illustrious ending. Having spent so much time in the theater and none at all in the library, according to the dean I graduated at the bottom of my class, the very bottom. I figured this was better than graduating second from the bottom. My parents were thrilled that I had actually made it through.

What I cared about was that I had been accepted at the Monomoy Theatre in Chatham, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod to do summer stock. Next stop, Broadway! I had been “discovered” by an MGM talent scout when I played Sabina in Thornton Wilder’s The Skin of Our Teeth my senior year. He was going to make me a star. His name was Dudley Wilkinson. I carried his card around for years the way I carried Timothy Leary’s.

The work schedule at the Monomoy was exhausting. We probably averaged four hours of sleep a night. Aside from acting, we did everything, including help with the building of sets, selling tickets, printing programs, and even sweeping out the theater. We took all our meals together and collapsed at the end of the day, only to try and memorize our lines. I was playing Lydia Languish in Richard Sheridan’s The Rivals, so I had my work cut out for me. It had become clear, though I had my heart set on becoming a great tragedienne, that I was really cut out for comedy. I had actually played Lady Anne in Shakespeare’s gruesome Richard III, and I made the scene so screamingly funny that people were rolling in the aisles. (Or at least that’s how I remember it.) My penchant for comedy has served me well—especially as a journalist in Washington and even more so as a religion reporter. When you’re looking for meaning in life, one of the things that stands out is humor. The expression “from the sublime to the ridiculous” becomes profound. In the end, one good way to get through life intact is to laugh.

While working at the Monomoy I wasn’t dating at all. The men in the troupe were so involved with themselves that I don’t think they knew the women existed. There was very little chance of meeting anyone. However, I did get a call from a guy who was a friend of a friend, asking me out. He sounded nice on the phone so I agreed to see him on the one night we had off.

He was tall, dark, and heart-stoppingly handsome. He was also brilliant, funny, witty, a talented musician, successful, wise, a great athlete, and kind. He had graduated from one Ivy League college and was already teaching, at the age of twenty-three, at another. I fell instantly in love. So did he. He was working on a book, staying at his parents’ summer house nearby.

We were inseparable from the moment we saw each other, at least during the times I was free. I, however, began to get less than four hours of sleep so I could meet him at odd hours. I drank so much coffee trying to stay awake that summer that I still can hardly bear the smell of it.

We often would sneak out to the beach or to his car to make out but never did more than that. I was still a virgin and he knew it. I was so impressed with his restraint, but I have to admit I was a bit frustrated as well. Some nights when I was free I would go to his parents’ house to stay over. He never once came into my room. It was all very chaste.

At one point that summer my parents decided to come up from Washington for a weekend. I couldn’t have been more excited. I was anxious for them to meet my new love. I had told them I’d met the man I was going to marry. He hadn’t actually proposed but I knew he would. It was just a matter of time.

My parents took us out to dinner and really seemed to like him. What wasn’t to like? He was charming, polite, smart, engaging, everything you could wish for in a son-in-law. I was so proud of him. I was especially excited because he had asked me to go for a walk on the beach with him after dinner. He had something he wanted to talk to me about. There was no doubt in my mind that this was going to be the big moment.

It was a beautiful night, not too chilly as was often the case on the Cape. The stars were out by the millions and, of course, there was a full moon, which made the sand twinkle as we walked barefoot down the beach holding hands. I was in a swoon. I was wearing a blue-and-beige printed full-skirted dress that swirled in the breeze and made me feel like a fairy princess. I was laughing and chatting away, so full of joy I could barely contain myself. He seemed unusually quiet, but I just assumed he was gearing up for the big question.

Suddenly he stopped. He pulled me to him and kissed me, a long loving, lingering kiss. I thought I would faint. Then he held me away from him. “I have something to tell you,” he said. I held my breath.

“I’m impotent.”

At first I didn’t think I had heard him correctly. I wasn’t actually sure I understood what he was saying.

“Sally, I’m impotent,” he said more forcefully. His voice was cracking with emotion. “I’ve always been. All my life. I’ve never had an erection.”

He waited. I said nothing. I was in shock. I didn’t know how to respond. I knew this was terrible news, but, as a virgin, I didn’t actually realize how terrible.

“I love you,” he said. “I’ve never been in love like this before. But I can’t marry you. In fact, I can’t be with you anymore. It’s not fair to you. I have nothing to give you.” The tears were pouring down his face now.

I tried to persuade him it was okay. That I loved him so much that we could overcome this. I insisted that sex wasn’t the most important thing in the world, anyway. I just wanted to be with him. That was all that mattered. In my heart I’m not sure I believed that, but the idea of losing him was not acceptable.

He put his arms around me and we held each other for the longest time, overcome with emotion. Finally he said it was time to go and we walked silently back to the car and he dropped me off at the theater. I didn’t kiss him. I just got out of the car and walked away, not looking back. He didn’t say anything.

The following night I had to perform. I walked through my part in a daze. I still couldn’t quite process what had happened and what it meant. I was so confused. I didn’t hear from him. After the performance, my parents took me out for fried clams. I couldn’t eat. They knew something was wrong, but I kept insisting it was just that I didn’t feel well. They drove me back to the theater. They were leaving the following morning so I wouldn’t see them again until the end of the summer. I was feeling desperately alone and bereft. When they stopped the car and told me good night, I started to cry deep racking sobs. My mother put her arm around me and stroked my hair. They were both begging me to tell them what was wrong. Embarrassed as I was, mortified really, I couldn’t hold back any longer.

I related what I had learned the night before. I said, “He told me last night. He says we can’t see each other again.”

There was a long silence. My mother held me tighter and continued stroking me. “Oh, darlin’,” she kept saying. Daddy said nothing.

We sat there in the car, not speaking for a while. Then my father spoke up.

“The guy’s a Jew,” he said.

I was stunned. This from the man who helped liberate Dachau?! But what did it have to do with anything anyway? What made my father think that my boyfriend was Jewish? What prompted him to say it? What made him react the way he did? In retrospect, I think he was trying to make me feel better. In Daddy’s mind, the fact that my friend was Jewish precluded any marriage between us. He was opposed to my marrying outside what was his faith, not mine. His thinking must have been that since I couldn’t marry the man I loved because of his religion, then it was just as well he had this problem that would make a marriage impossible in any case.

I never felt quite the same way about my father again. The pedestal I had put him on crumbled before my eyes. He had been like a god to me. Now, yet another deity had turned out not to be real.

* * *

I finally called my friend a few days later and insisted that he make a doctor’s appointment to have a physical. He had never told anyone about his problem, not even a doctor. I offered to go with him, which I did, and waited in the car. After the appointment, he came out smiling. There was nothing physically wrong with him, he was told. It was psychological. He needed to start therapy immediately, which could take years. He drove me back and we sat in the car. He strongly suggested and I agreed that we shouldn’t see each other anymore. Years (in the plural, clearly) was too long to wait and I had a life to lead. Interestingly enough, my ardor for him had cooled. Even though I didn’t really know what I was missing, I understood it was too important to give up. My sexuality was budding, and there was something mysterious and magical there that I felt I couldn’t reach without consummating our love. I had a spiritual feeling for him, but I seemed to know I needed more.

We hugged good-bye, I got out of the car, and watched him drive away. The sadness I felt was all-encompassing.

Years later I read that he married somebody famous. I was happy for him. I also was so grateful to him that he had had the strength and courage to let me go.