AS LONG AS HE lived Martin would always remember the day Julian graduated from high school. For the first time he realized how hard it must have been for his own parents to see him grow up and go off to college. Sitting in the bright sun, Martin took Bess’s hand and squeezed it as he watched his son walk up and receive his diploma. Seeing the gesture, Sylvia smiled. Martin seemed happier these days, less restless, or so she liked to believe. But if she had been able to read his thoughts this bright June day she might have felt less serene.
As the headmaster began his speech, Martin could not believe that it had been decades since he had sat on the same platform facing the audience at his own graduation. Where the hell had his life gone? In September it would be Julian’s time to set off for Yale, but Martin knew he would have a much easier time. With no quotas, and admissions based mostly on grades and college boards, it was unlikely that Julian would find himself in a suite filled with tweedy anti-Semites who thought college was just a place to play sports and drink beer. But even with all of his problems at Yale, Martin would eagerly have relived those years. His mother stirred at his side and he glanced at her shocked to see how much she had aged in the last months. She was approaching seventy now, and that fact frightened him too.
In many ways Martin knew himself to be a lucky man, but he found himself more and more often forgetting where he was and reliving the past. And the past meant Jenny. Despite his best intentions he kept remembering their year together in New York. He saw her running across the room to him, bending over the stove, throwing back her head in uninhibited laughter.
As the band struck up “Pomp and Circumstance,” Martin dragged himself back to the present, feeling as guilty as though he had actually been with Jenny, kissing those red lips and brushing back her thick, wavy hair.
As Julian started off the stage, Martin wanted to cry out to him, Enjoy it, son, it goes so fast. Was it really only eight years ago he had been playing Little League, only five years ago they had gone trout fishing without either Amy or Sylvia? Martin blinked back tears as he made his way through the crowd to congratulate his son.
Two years later, when Amy graduated, Martin found the memories even more overwhelming. Tuning out the headmaster’s dull speech, he let a kaleidoscope of pictures run through his mind: Amy at five, whizzing past him on her new two-wheeler, “Look Dad, no hands”; at six, swimming the length of the pool; at eight, going camping and falling in the poison oak; at thirteen winning the piano competition and coming home on top of the world, convinced she could do anything.
That night when Amy came into his study to show off her long white prom dress, Martin had trouble believing that this was the same little girl he had watched grow up. He kept remembering how he had walked the floor with her when she had scarlet fever. Could this be the same child in floating chiffon with her hair twisted up on her head, soft tendrils framing her face?
“How do I look, Dad?”
Not Daddy anymore. “Like my beautiful princess. Who gave you the orchids?”
“Mark Rosenthal. He’s taking me tonight.”
Martin realized he should have known. She and Mark seemed to have been going steady since the cradle, but now they were no longer little.
“What time will you be home, darling?”
“I don’t know, Dad, about one, maybe.”
“No ‘maybe,’ Amy. I want you home on the dot or you’ll turn into a pumpkin courtesy of your old dad.”
Later, playing bridge, Martin had trouble concentrating on the game. When he did the unpardonable and trumped Sylvia’s ace, his cousin Jane said, “Martin … are you with us tonight?”
Sylvia laughed. “I’m not sure. I think Amy’s graduation really got to him. He just can’t admit that Julian and Amy aren’t children anymore.”
“You mean they’ve grown up and he has the growing pains?” teased Jane.
“Something like that.”
“Well,” said Jane, “I’m going to let my birds fly. When they’re all gone, I’m not going to mind a bit. Arthur and I will enjoy being a couple again. I think that’s the best part of getting older.”
That made a lot of sense to Sylvia, but seeing Martin’s frown she remained silent.
Two days later the Roths flew to Europe for their summer vacation, where they were joined in London by Julian, who had left from New York a week earlier.
As they toured all the famous spots in London and Paris, Sylvia was eerily reminded of Martin’s withdrawal on their honeymoon. He said all the right things, chose the best restaurants, tried to make sure the children were enjoying themselves, but it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it. On their honeymoon, Sylvia knew that it was the war which cast a shadow on their trip. This time she wasn’t sure. She only hoped and prayed he would find words to tell her.
When they headed for Italy she knew the time had come to take action. While everyone was out shopping one afternoon in Rome, she headed for an exclusive lingerie shop on the Via del Angelo. When she left with the little gaily wrapped package in her hand, she could hardly wait for the night to come. Martin sensed her unusual excitement all through dinner.
Finally the kids went to bed and Sylvia went to the bathroom to undress. She took a long time and Martin, hearing the water running, realized she was taking a bath. When she emerged she was wearing a short lace nighty which clearly revealed her nipples and the dark triangle between her thighs.
“Jesus Christ, you look like a whore,” Martin shouted. As she raced back to the bathroom Martin lay back sullenly on the pillows. Did she think he needed that to get a hard-on? Then his anger subsided and he felt bad. She had just been trying to cheer him up and he had made an ass of himself.
“Sylvia,” he called, “I’m sorry. Come back to bed.”
There was no answer. Sylvia was staring at herself in the mirror. She did look like a prostitute. No wonder Martin had been upset. Sex gimmicks, pornography—he had never been interested in any of that, and certainly those things had never been necessary to initiate their lovemaking. His forty-fifth birthday had been especially traumatic, and in his present state of mind her prank had probably made him think she doubted her own appeal.
She knew some of the women at the club had made a play for him, showing by a smile, a gesture, that they wouldn’t at all mind being seduced. In fact, a few had been more than obvious. Maybe she was taking Martin for granted, but she would have bet her last dollar that he had never cheated on her.
She washed her face, took a deep breath, and came back into the room dressed in a simple white nightgown.
“Darling, I want to apologize. However, dear, I was just teasing because I know how down you’ve been. I wish you could tell me what’s bothering you.”
He looked at her, wondering how the hell he could explain. She deserved the truth, except he wasn’t certain what the truth was. He sighed. “I don’t know if I can.”
“After all this time, Martin, don’t you know you can tell me anything? Why should there be secrets between us?”
“It isn’t a question of secrets. It’s that some things are tough to admit, especially to ourselves.” Swallowing hard, he said, “OK, here’s a confession: I used to think that fear of aging was only a female trait. The truth is, men are just as frightened as women. Not just for the wrinkles. In fact, vanity has nothing to do with it. Nor does sex. Crazy as this is, everything seemed to hit me so suddenly. Seeing the children all grown up made me feel as though I had lost my usefulness … my function as a father. I know there’s no logic in any of this, but our lives were so consumed with them through the years that I feel as though I’ve come to a crossroads.”
It was strange, Sylvia thought. She had known Martin all her life but would never have guessed that he had such deep-seated fears of aging. He was so extraordinarily handsome, more so now than ever. He was right, Sylvia thought: logic had nothing to do with it.
“I can still hear the sound of her laughter,” Martin continued, “that day I took her to the circus and she saw the clown. Where the hell did the years go? Suddenly I turned around and she’s all grown up. It seems a whole chapter of our lives has closed on us. God, Sylvia, I don’t know how to say this, but I really feel over the hill.”
Sylvia wasn’t sure what to say. She wanted to reassure Martin by saying that the two of them could have fun alone, but she wasn’t certain he would agree. After all these years, the old insecurities came flooding back to haunt her. Maybe Martin would not be happy living with her now without the children. She looked at his sad face and forced herself to put her feelings aside.
“You know what your daughter said?” Sylvia said, forcing a note of gaiety into her voice.
“What?”
“That her father was the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life.”
In spite of himself he smiled. “Did she?”
“Yes. Do you remember being eighteen? You don’t know if you really want to finish growing up or slide back into childhood. It’s a funny age.”
“So is forty-seven.”
“It shouldn’t be. Especially when a man looks like you,” she said, tilting her head back. “Do you know what I want right this minute?”
Suddenly he did. Off came the white silk nightgown and he proceeded to show her … and especially himself.
Later, when he got up to turn off the light, Sylvia whispered, “You’re getting better with age, darling. Keep it up.”
At nine the next morning Amy came into the living room of their suite at the Excelsior Hotel. She found Julian dressed and ready for the day’s excursion, but the door to her parents’ room was closed. That was unusual, she thought, especially when they had planned the day for sightseeing. “Where are the folks?”
“Sleeping.”
“How come? We were supposed to go to the Catacombs early.”
“The Catacombs have been here for thousands of years.”
“But we won’t. I’m going to wake them up.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Amy.”
“Why? Everything closes down at two for their crazy siestas.”
“I know … that’s why the Italians have so many children.”
“You mean the folks …” Amy’s sophistication dropped away.
“That’s what I mean, baby sister. Now let’s go down to breakfast, hop a bus, and strike out on our own.”
“But they won’t know where we’ve gone.”
“I’ll leave a note.”
Sylvia blinked the sleep from her eyes, then looked at the clock. It was late, already eleven-thirty. Hastily she put on her robe and went into the sitting room, expecting to find the children and apologize for spoiling their day, but the room was empty. Then she saw the note propped up against the lamp. “Dear Mom and Dad, when in Rome do as the Romans do. Molto amore. We’ll be back at three. Love, Julian.”
Sylvia blushed. She was the one who had advocated sex education, but when your children knew all about what their parents did behind closed doors … She showed the note to Martin, who just laughed.
For the rest of the trip he devoted himself to his family’s pleasure. They did everything tourists do: visited the Catacombs, the Coliseum, the Vatican. And Martin made certain that everywhere they went Sylvia had an excellent time.
But when the time came to leave Amy at school, he was devastated. He felt all the weight of his almost fifty years. The night in Rome had cheered him for a time, but like most people, Martin was a victim of his moods, and as they left Europe he felt heavy with depression.
All the way home on the plane to New York he chastised himself for wallowing in senseless self-pity, but when he dropped Julian back at Yale he felt as though someone had shot a cannon through him, leaving a hole so big nothing would ever fill it up. Once again he spoke to himself like a Dutch uncle. He had to stop all this nonsense about disenchantment. Who the hell did he think he was? He had more than any man had a right to. And it was time to stop mooning over his youth. Everyone gets old, and he was not even fifty yet. He was going to enjoy the time he had, and by God make sure Sylvia did too.
Martin was as good as his word. Despite long hours at the office, he improved his golf, spent more time with Sylvia at the opera and the theater, and insisted she drive into town once a week to meet him for lunch.
The first time she came in he chose the St. Francis, and that afternoon instead of going back to work he took a room and they spent the rest of the day in bed. It was as good a way of recapturing lost youth as any.
Sylvia was happier than she’d been in months. She went on a diet, lost the five pounds she’d put on in Europe, and carefully planned their social life around the people Martin liked best. Even Bess noticed a lift in her son’s mood, and if either of the two women closest to him noticed an occasional artificial note to his gaiety, they both thought it wiser to say nothing.
Growing up was different for everyone. Particularly at forty-eight, particularly for Martin Roth.