Self-Reinvention
“I got married!”
“What?” Mabel said. “All by yourself?”
“I’m so happy, Mom. I wanted to tell you right away.”
“Norman, pick up the other extension, it’s your daughter, she has something to tell you.”
“Rocky?”
“Hi Daddy. Guess what?”
“She says she got married again.”
“To who?”
“To what we should ask.”
“I didn’t want to introduce you until I was sure.”
“So, are you sure now?”
“He’s Jewish, Mom, and he’s a lawyer.”
“Rocky, congratulations.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“What, he doesn’t watch television? He never saw your show?”
“I’m taking a leave from the show, Mom.”
“What’s this?”
“Leave from the show?”
“But you are the show. Now I’m confused.”
“I’ll explain when I see you. Don’t worry, everything’s okay, I’m happy.”
“Baby, what’s his name, your husband?”
“Jason Barthoff.”
“The lawyer who sued the bastard photographer for you?”
“I could whip that dirty photographer into a blintz! But what I want to know is what you were doing in Greece when you were twenty years old.”
“Leave her alone, Mabel, our daughter is an accomplished woman now.”
“Mom, Dad, come for dinner at our place. I already called Leo and he’s coming. Robby’s got a conference in New York that week and Natalie and the kids are joining him. It’ll be a family reunion. Next Sunday, can you?”
“Of course we can.”
“We’ll have to check our calendar.”
“We’ll be there.”
“We’ll see.”
Jason and Rochelle Love Barthoff lived in a three thousand square foot loft on Broome Street in SoHo. Jason had been on the Upper West Side, Rochelle had been on the Upper East Side, and moving down here had accomplished two things: it merged their homes, and suited their downgraded financial status which resulted from Rochelle’s hiatus from television.
Charlie had fought for her — she had heard voices flying behind closed doors (he had thought they would remain calm if she stayed out of the room) — but the network men would not absorb the blow of what was perceived as adultery then understood to be a secret divorce and remarriage. Women who changed husbands were unfit role models for the viewing public. It was suggested that Rochelle take a leave of absence from the show. Charlie called it, “Murder, not suicide, baby. Murder. You’re a fighter. You’re gonna fight this one!” But to his surprise, she agreed to leave. She had hit against the network’s limits with the Playboy incident and survived; another blow could devastate her. She had her reasons for backing off while her reputation was still basically intact. After all, she was Rocky Love, not Doris Day; the network would forgive her this alleged transgression as soon as they realized that the public already had. She would quit, temporarily, while she was still ahead, before the next ill wind swept the plain. Once all was calm in the land, again, she would return — heroic and welcomed.
The Love-Barthoff loft began as a huge open space with half-wall barriers for kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. Aside from the most basic fixtures — toilet and showerstall in the bathroom, sink, stove, and refrigerator in the kitchen — they had their living space transformed into a maze of open spaces and a few very private ones, with a high tech kitchen, three bathrooms and a maid’s room. The front door opened onto a massive living room with huge windows and two skylights. Rochelle’s overstuffed pastel furniture was interspersed with Jason’s beige and white leather, and a few antiques bought by what Rochelle called “the joint estate.” Exotic indoor trees loomed by the windows, and flowering cactuses dotted the sills. Jason loved plants. Rochelle’s growing collection of erotic Oriental art, framed in gold-painted wood, decorated the white walls.
When they were settled into their new home, they decided to throw a house-warming party, which would also serve to introduce Jason to the Libbons.
“Will your family like me?” he asked.
She looked at her eager husband. How could they not like him with his curly brown hair, neatly trimmed beard, crisp white shirt, adorable blue suspenders and playful red bow tie? With his law degree, his kindness and his authority? And at last, her mother could claim triumph in the Jewish half of Rochelle’s rogue soul.
“Perfect man,” she said. “How about me?”
She was wearing a black mohair sweater-dress with a big red circle in the middle, a Zen bull’s-eye, blazing sun.
“Beautiful.”
She fluffed her hair with her fingers crammed with rings. Her hair had gone wild again, as in her youth, but she had kept the henna highlights and Lisa Long had styled it into a glamorous curly mop.
She said, “Mom’ll throw barbs at you, so just expect it. She thinks I’m a slut.”
Jason hugged Rochelle. “You’re no slut, you’re my wife.”
She found his lips in his beard, like a rose blossom tucked into bramble. They kissed.
Within half an hour, everyone had arrived except Norman and Mabel. When they finally appeared, Mabel stood in the doorway in her mink coat, her arms dangling at her sides, one hand trailing a boxy black purse. “Ehem,” she cleared her throat, announcing her arrival.
“Mom!” Rochelle greeted her. “Why don’t you come in?”
“What’s the rush?”
Norman walked past his wife, who had rooted herself in the doorway. He kissed Rochelle and shook his new son-in-law’s hand.
“Welcome to our home,” Jason said.
“Welcome to our family,” Norman said.
Norman crossed the living room to greet Robby and Leo, who were seated across a low glass coffee table. Natalie, Robby’s wife, came out of the bathroom with little Norman, a miniperson in denim overalls. He dashed straight to his grandma Mabel. She lifted him up and he nuzzled his face in her mink before squirming out of her arms and running off.
Robby and Natalie laughed. They had grown into a comfortable early mid-dle-age together, and had come to resemble each other as really close couples tend to. Robby’s tall dark sturdy build had softened, with a dusting of gray in his hair and a paunch. And Natalie, who had always been the more innocuous of the pair, had become stronger and more self-assured. At the time little Norman, their third child, had been conceived — a “surprise,” they said, not a “mistake” — she had been applying to graduate schools in psychology. But with news of a new baby, she shifted gears back to the idea that her family would be the center of her life for a while longer. It was as if she was patiently waiting for the next onion skin to slough off so she could finally discover her obscured potential. Leslie and Lisa, twelve-year-old identical bookends, sat together on the couch.
Jason took Norman’s coat. Norman’s salt-and-pepper hair had lost most of its pepper, and his face looked waxen and a little sad.
“I hear they don’t even let old women into nice apartments like this,” Norman said to Jason.
“Over fifty, it’s against the law.”
“Well,” Norman said, “that’s more food for us.”
“So, I’m taking my time, so what? I’m invited to my only daughter’s home to meet her husband — neither of which I’ve ever laid eyes on before — and I want to take it in slowly. I don’t want any shocks. Why should an old woman open herself to disappointment?”
“Would you like something to drink, Mrs. Libbon?” Jason asked.
“What time is it?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Then I’ll have a little sherry.”
Mabel fixated on a drawing of a man and a woman explicitly copulating amidst yards of flowing Oriental robes. She said, “My drink, please, then I’ll die,” and lunged into the room.
She headed for Leo, who was standing by one of the windows, and stretched up to kiss him. “My baby,” she said. She pinched his check so his face distorted and his mustache arched like a caterpillar stretching its back.
“Let me take your coat, Mom.”
She sighed, and in a movement of deflation, the mink coat slid off. Leo caught it.
“Just throw it on our bed,” Jason said.
Our bed. Mabel looked at him, really took him in with her shrewd mother’s I’ve been around for a while so don’t take me for a fool look. “So,” she said, “you’re my son-in-law?”
Jason approached her with a small glass of sherry. “I have the honor, yes.” He handed her the drink.
She smelled it before sipping.
“Don’t worry, it isn’t poisoned.”
“You haven’t been in prison? Well, that’s good news.”
“Of course I haven’t been in prison.” Jason raised his voice, unaware of what everyone else knew: Mabel was not hard of hearing; she was treating him to her signature so-called welcome. “I’m an attorney. I have a practice in midtown.”
“My last son-in-law had a practice on Park Avenue. So? You’re Jewish?”
“I am.”
“Your parents?”
“They live in Connecticut. My father was an investor, but he retired last year.”
“An inventor?”
“Investor.”
“What did he invent?”
Rochelle rushed over with a tray of raw carrots, broccoli and cauliflower arranged in petals around a crystal bowl of sour cream dip. “I made this dip myself,” she said.
Mabel took a carrot stick and plunged it into the dip. “Not bad.”
Leo joined them, and took a stalk of broccoli, which he ate plain.
Mabel’s eyes focused on the red circle on Rochelle’s sweater. Then the eyes traveled to the breasts, the face, the hands. Mabel looked right at Rochelle and nodded. “Stay off the salt,” she said. “When are you due?”
Rochelle blushed.
Leo said, “Really?”
Jason said, “August third.”
“Congratulations,” Mabel said to Jason. “So long as it looks a little like you, you shouldn’t worry.”
Parker Love Barthoff was born earlier than expected, on July 5th, weighing in at eight pounds and three ounces. Everyone agreed he looked like Rochelle but with Jason’s eyes and nose except for the very tip, where it curled down like Rochelle’s. His head was covered in downy black hair which swirled into a tiny cowlick at the back.
Parker’s room in the loft was decorated with mobiles, stenciled bears and ducks trotting across the walls, sky blue curtains that joined to reveal a hugely smiling clown face, and hundreds of stuffed animals and toys that had poured in from friends, colleagues of Jason’s and fans of Rochelle’s.
She loved motherhood, loved this little baby who looked like her, loved the extra attention he gathered to their lives. For the first few months, Rochelle reveled in the novelty of motherhood and managed to bond with her baby despite an army of household help.
At the helm of the domestic corps was Nancy McGuire, a born-and-bred New Englander with professional training in childcare. She was plump, maternal, trustworthy and consistently even-tempered, with a flush in her face as if perpetually embarrassed. That she dressed in corduroy skirts, flat shoes and cotton man-tailored blouses suited Rochelle perfectly, as the last thing she wanted was a feminine female — competition — living in her home. Nancy’s short brown hair was barbered, not styled. There was nothing vain about Nancy McGuire. She selflessly cared for the family and the household, supervising cleaners, caterers and delivery people as they came and went.
Nancy lived with them in the loft during the week, and bundled Parker up every Friday for the three hour trip to their country house in Amagansett, Long Island — a big old wooden beach house beaten gray by years of sun and salt air. Nancy moved their lives smoothly in and out of both residences, keeping kitchens stocked, laundry sorted, baby fed and clean. She was off every second weekend and never complained about not having enough time to herself.
Rochelle grew acutely aware of how much her life had changed. Less than a decade ago, newly married to Bobby, her days had been slow and empty. Her restlessness and the ensuing search had led her in loops to here, to now. Though she was still young, she was old enough to look back and see clearly the highs of her ups and how the lows of her downs always propelled her up again. In three decades she had been Rochelle Libbon and Rodney Parker and Rocky Love. She was a wife (again) and a mother. She had accomplished so much — more than most people ever did — and now it was time to begin again, to swing up, to reinvent herself bigger and better than ever. She knew, as a fact, that she was capable of having everything: her wonderful husband, her beautiful child, and a new wave of success. She felt as confident as ever as she set herself in motion.
She began by setting up an office in the loft. It was a bright room, compact, with an L-shaped desk built against the wall, shiny new file cabinets, and her favorite purple and black striped chair. Framed awards hung on the walls as reminders and motivators. New ideas started bubbling up — and one caught hold.
Rochelle had thought it would take longer to find the route to her comeback, but here it was, in a nutshell: A new show called Mother Love for working women who had forfeited career for family. The idea hounded her until she had to work on it; she needed to be in the world, much as she loved her new family. But she would have to work hard to engineer her return to shore through hostile waters. The network’s reaction to her divorce from Bobby had been severe... but nothing a good publicist couldn’t soften, especially now that she was a mother. Rochelle hired one, and the spin began.
While doing interviews, and posing with Parker for photo shoots, she also spent time outlining her concept for the new show. She had never before produced a show herself, and she was surprised at how time-consuming it was to develop an idea. The research alone ate up months. She hired a new assistant, Betsy, who was able to help with rudimentary secretarial duties but turned out to be weak in more demanding areas. Too busy to start a new search for a more competent assistant, Rochelle decided to make do. The Rocky Love machine was back in action.
She spoke frequently with Charlie, who would do the final pitch to the network. He advised her that it would bolster her chances if she could stir the waters of “the motherhood in society thing” and suggested she try the lecture circuit.
Her first appearance was on a panel sponsored by the National Organization for Women to discuss the “Promise of the Eighties” for working women with families. So many of the working women of the seventies had had children that the question of how to do both — work and mother — was high on the list of the public agenda. The discussion took place at Columbia University and Rochelle was one of five women to sit on the panel. Women and men crowded the audience and there were many questions. The press came. Clearly, motherhood had become politicized, and Rochelle knew that once she had enough exposure, the network would sign her up.
Her next stop was Washington, D.C. to address “Working Motherhood” at a lecture sponsored by Women for Equal Access, the lobbying organization Reebah had gone to Washington to direct. Rochelle was eager to see her old friend; it had been years, and much had happened in both their lives since the notoriety of Mad Women catapulted them off in different directions.
Reebah had become an established voice in the women’s movement, The Choice had become a landmark book and her two subsequent books had continued to define the feminist horizon socially, ethically, legally. Reebah had a vision for the betterment of all people. She had told Rochelle, on the phone, that her next book was to be a biography of a black poet who had lived in poverty and raised six children alone. She said that this life of a black woman artist would reach more people and tell a truth more baldly and effectively than her previous books which were academically oriented. She said she saw society backsliding on issues of women and people of color, and that she felt a responsibility to turn up the volume on her voice.
On the airplane, heading south to D.C., Rochelle had the idea to bring Reebah on as co-host of Mother Love. It struck her as perfect, a neatly wrapped coup for the network, a shoe-in to the top of the ratings.
She hurried along the corridors at Dulles airport, excited, searching for Reebah as she headed toward the baggage area. As Rochelle waited for her suitcase to loop toward her, she saw a man in a black suit, standing by a group of people, holding a sign with her name on it — R. Barthoff — and searching faces blankly for a response. Reebah must have sent him, and had been thoughtful enough to give her married name. If the sign had said Rocky Love, people would have chased her for autographs; not that she would have minded the attention, but it was more dignified to pretend not to care. When a passing woman did a double-take, Rochelle smiled, fluffed her hair and turned away
The hired driver took Rochelle to an office building with instructions that she should go to the fifteenth floor. The elevator door opened to a drab hallway with a small roster on the wall on which the room number for Women for Equal Access — WEA — was listed.
As soon as she turned the corner, she heard the hum of activity from the WEA office. The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and found a room with two women and a young man working at old metal desks crammed together. She heard Reebah’s voice coming through a door to the left.
One of the young women looked up and smiled. “Hi, you must be Reebah’s friend.”
Rochelle nodded. She was aware that the woman had not recognized her, or had pretended not to. She reminded herself that not everyone watched television.
“Reeb’s in there.” The young woman lifted her chin toward the open door. Rochelle followed the sound of Reebah’s voice, rich and energetic, into the inner office.
Reebah sat behind a large wooden desk, an old government issue clunker. She was on the phone, listening, and when she saw Rochelle in the doorway she smiled hugely and waved her in.
Rochelle sat in a chair opposite the desk and took in the beautiful sight of her old friend. Her face had a new round shape and she seemed slightly heavier. Her skin appeared softer, less glistening, than in the past. She had cut her hair so now it rose only an inch or so from her head. She was wearing a loose red dress and gold hoop earrings. As always, she wore no makeup. In contrast, Rochelle was suddenly aware of her own highly arranged appearance. Over the years, as her pockets deepened and she learned she had something called an image, she had gradually come to preen her looks. The wiry mass of hair had given way to the softer curls of a permanent and the metallic red hue of a henna rinse. Her fingernails had been manicured professionally, ever since her television days, and she selected colors to complement a wardrobe that was expensive and more complicated than ever. Accessories now matched. Shoes were discarded when noticeably scuffed. She looked as successful and comfortable as she was. Yet Reebah — who was at least as successful and well known as Rochelle, though in a different milieu — carried her beauty from within, as always. And as always, Rochelle was impressed by her old friend’s strength, her straightforward acceptance of herself. In a way, Reebah was the woman Rochelle had always talked about on the air when she described the goal we could all reach through knowing ourselves: the goal of self-love and acceptance, confidence, intelligence, strength and accomplishment.
Reebah hung up the phone. “Rocky!” She pushed herself away from the desk and stood, and Rochelle could see now that her friend was four or five months pregnant.
They came toward each other around the desk and hugged. Then Rochelle put her hand on Reebah’s belly and said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Thought I’d surprise you. Anyway, I didn’t want to get into the whole story on the phone.”
Rochelle nodded. Of course. Reebah wasn’t married.
“Sorry I couldn’t meet you, something came up and I had to deal with it.”
“You’ve got them working late tonight.”
“Oh, we work late every night, it’s an uphill run. Come on, let’s get outta here, I want to take you home.”
Home was a large, comfortably furnished apartment off Dupont Circle. Reebah set about making pasta, a fresh tomato sauce and salad. Rochelle sat at the counter and sipped a glass of white wine.
“The father is a wonderful man,” Reebah explained. “He’s kind and he’s successful and I love him. But I don’t want to marry him. He’d take me over, I can see that in him, and I know I could never abide a possessive man. So, I thought it over and decided I wanted to have this child and I wanted to be single. I made the decision that I would have both. It’s my way. I feel good about it. And let’s face it, I’ve done well, I can afford it. I’m going to be the greatest single mother on earth and this kid’s daddy is going to be there. He already is.”
“It never occurred to me,” Rochelle said, “to do it alone.”
“You were already married.”
“No, actually, I was pregnant when I married Jason.”
“Well, I guess it’s my turn to break some rules, huh?”
“Tell me about your work,” Rochelle said.
Reebah stirred the sauce. “You know, I love it, but I can see that things have really changed. It’s like the gains we made in the early seventies are stuck. I’m on the phone a lot, talking to a little of everyone, and I read a lot and my staff reads a lot, and we see a trend in the other direction. Backward. It’s scary.”
“But you’re still at it. I’m proud of you, Reebah.”
“Well, thanks. And look at you, turning out a lot nicer than anyone expected.”
“I think that’s about the worst thing anyone ever said about me.”
“No offense, honey, but you’re lookin’ awfully good.”
“I have an image to keep up, remember?” Rochelle laughed.
“Right. TV.”
“You know, Reeb, on the flight down, I had a great idea for the show I’m developing. I told you about it on the phone.”
“I remember. Mother Love.”
“Picture it: you and me, co-hosting, like in the Mad Women days but now, older, wiser. And your having a baby is perfect.”
Reebah shakes her head. “There are two reasons I can think of right now that it would not work.”
“That was quick.”
“Just listen, Rocky. First, no television network would have a single mother, a black single mother, hosting a whitebread morning show. And second, to be honest, I really think it’s a mistake to focus on the motherhood issues. I mean, one of the problems for women has been getting lost in motherhood. It took some doing to start getting women out into the work force and feeling comfortable admitting we liked it. It was a bitch getting abortion legalized again. And we haven’t exactly got the Equal Rights Amendment fixed in place yet. That stuff’s real important to me. I couldn’t lead women back to the kitchen any more than I could lead my people back to the cotton fields. It would be a mistake. I’m more interested now in getting legislation passed to close the pay gap than getting stuck on day care. Day care’s important, but pay equity is more at the heart of a woman’s ability to pay for that day care for her child when she’s out earning that equal dollar.”
Rochelle sipped her wine. She felt, surprisingly, lectured. “Well, you don’t need to lobby me.”
Reebah’s eyes slid to look at Rochelle, sitting on the stool. “Are you sure? I mean, when you thought up this new show, why didn’t any of this occur to you?”
Rochelle shrugged. “I feel my new show will have a compelling format for what people are concerned with today. Today, Reebah.”
“Yeah, today. It’s starting to look kinda grim from where I sit.”
The next night, standing at an illuminated podium in a dark auditorium filled with an invited audience who had come to hear her speak, Rochelle turned and caught a glimpse of Reebah standing in the wings. Her arms were folded over her swollen belly, and she watched Rochelle with her face still and pensive, almost — could it be? — wary.