My Latest Grievance Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Perfect Child

  The Pearls

  Room and Bored

  The First Family

  Cahoots

  A Situation

  P.S. I Love Someone Else

  We Meet

  Less Than Full Disclosure

  We Don’t Do That Here

  My Job

  Legs

  The Dirt

  Everyone

  All Ears

  December

  I Hate Them All

  Alienation of Affection

  Dinner Is Delayed

  After All That

  Sleeping Arrangements

  Custody

  Adolescence, Puberty, and Emotion Regulation

  Need to Know

  Walking Papers

  February

  Time and a Half

  Cabin Fever

  The Little Guys

  Valentine’s Day Night

  The Wages of Sin

  Home

  Emeriti

  My Thanks

  Sample Chapter from ON TURPENTINE LANE

  Buy the Book

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH

  Copyright © 2006 by Elinor Lipman

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Lipman, Elinor.

  My latest grievance / Elinor Lipman.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-618-64465-0

  ISBN-10: 0-618-64465-2

  1. Teenage girls—Fiction. 2. Remarried people—Fiction. 3. College teachers—Fiction. 4. Dormitory life—Fiction. 5. Boston (Mass.)—Fiction. 6. Housemothers—Fiction. 7. Secrecy—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.1577M9 2006

  813'.54—dc22 2005022576

  eISBN 978-0-547-52714-7

  v3.0217

  To the memory of my parents

  1

  The Perfect Child

  I WAS RAISED in a brick dormitory at Dewing College, formerly the Mary-Ruth Dewing Academy, a finishing school best known for turning out attractive secretaries who married up.

  In the late 1950s, Dewing began granting baccalaureate degrees to the second-rate students it continued to attract despite its expansion into intellectual terrain beyond typing and shorthand. The social arts metamorphosed into sociology and psychology, nicely fitting the respective fields of job seekers Aviva Ginsburg Hatch, Ph.D., my mother, and David Hatch, Ph.D., my father. Twin appointments had been unavailable at the hundred more prestigious institutions they aspired and applied to. They arrived in Brookline, Massachusetts, in 1960, not thrilled with the Dewing wages or benefits, but ever hopeful and prone to negotiation—two bleeding hearts that beat as one, conjoined since their first date in 1955 upon viewing a Movietone newsreel of Rosa Parks’s arrest.

  Were they types, my parents-to-be? From a distance, and even to me for a long time, it appeared to be so. Over coffee in grad school they’d found that each had watched every black-and-white televised moment of the Army-McCarthy hearings, had both written passionately on The Grapes of Wrath in high school; both held Samuel Gompers and Pete Seeger in high esteem; both owned albums by the Weavers. Their wedding invitations, stamped with a union bug, asked that guests make donations in lieu of gifts to the presidential campaign of Adlai Stevenson.

  It was my father who proposed that their stable marriage and professional sensitivities would lend themselves to the rent-free benefit known as houseparenting. The dean of residential life said she was sorry, but a married couple was out of the question: Parents would not like a man living among their nubile daughters.

  “What about a man with a baby?” my father replied coyly. It was a premature announcement. My mother’s period must have been no more than a week late at the time of that spring interview, but they both felt ethically bound to share the details of her menstrual calendar. He posited further: Weren’t two responsible, vibrant parents with relevant Ph.D.s better than their no doubt competent but often elderly predecessors, who—with all due respect—weren’t such a great help with homework and tended to die on the job? David and Aviva inaugurated their long line of labor-management imbroglios by defending my right to live and wail within the 3.5 rooms of their would-be apartment. If given the chance, they’d handle everything; they’d address potential doubts and fears head-on in a letter they’d send to parents and guardians of incoming Mary-Ruths, as we called the students, introducing themselves, offering their phone number, their curricula vitae, their open door, and their projected vision of nuclear familyhood.

  The nervous dean gave the professors Hatch a one-year trial; after all, an infant in a dorm might disrupt residential life in ways no one could even project, prepartum. And consider the mumps, measles, and chicken pox a child would spread to the still susceptible and nonimmunized.

  On the first day of freshman orientation, three months’ pregnant, my mother greeted parents wearing maternity clothes over her flat abdomen, an unspoken announcement that most greeted with pats and coos of delight. Mothers testified to their daughters’ babysitting talents. My father demurred nobly. “We’d never want to take any one of our girls away from their studies,” he said.

  When I was born in February 1961, it was to instant campus celebrity. It didn’t matter that I was bald and scaly, quite homely if the earliest Polaroids tell the story. Photo album number one opens not with baby Frederica in the delivery room or in the arms of a relative, but with me—age ten days—in a group photo of the entire 1960–61 population of Griggs Hall. A competent girl with a dark flip and a wide headband, most likely a senior, is holding me up to the camera. My eyes are closed and I seem to be in the wind-up for a howl. My mother stands in the back row, a little apart from the girls, but smiling so fondly at the camera that I know my father was behind it.

  David Hatch would be a role model before the phrase was on the tip of every talk show hostess’s tongue. He paraded me in the big English perambulator, a joint gift from the psych. and soc. departments, along the ribbons of sidewalk that crisscrossed the smallish residential campus, or carried me against his chest in a homemade sling, which my mother modeled on cloths observed during her fieldwork in a primitive agrarian society. In public, at the dining hall, he spooned me baby food from jars, switching off with my mother—she nursed, he fed—causing quite the stir those many decades ago. He was a man ahead of his time, and the adolescents—his grad school concentration—noticed. My mother predicted that Dewing grads, especially Griggs alums, would blame us when their future husbands didn’t stack up to Professor-Housefather Hatch, the most equal of partners.

  We lived our fishbowl lives in three and a half wallpapered rooms furnished with overstuffed chairs and antique Persian rugs, the legacy of a predecessor who had died intestate. We had a beige half kitchen with a two-burner stove, a pink-tiled bathroom, a fake fireplace, and a baby grand piano, which the college tuned annually at its own expense, presumably in the name of sing-alongs and caroling. The nursery was a converted utility closet with a crib, later a cot. When I was seven, my parents petitioned the college to enlarge our quarters by incorporating a portion of Griggs Hall’s living room into our apartment. Noting my birth date, they asked the college to consider fashioning Miss Frederica Hatch, the unofficial mascot of Griggs Hall, a real bedroom; it was, after all, her sabbati
cal year.

  The board of trustees said yes to the renovation. Griggs Hall had become the most popular dorm on campus, despite its architectural blandness and its broken dryers. The Hatch family had worked out beautifully; more married couples had become dorm parents. Some had babies, surely for their own reasons, but also after I was a proven draw. When I went to college in the late 1970s, to a bucolic campus where dogs attended classes with their professor-masters, I noted that these chocolate labs and golden retrievers were the objects of great student affection, supplying something that was missing for the homesick and the lovesick. The dogs reminded me of me.

  I was a reasonable and polite child, if not one thoroughly conscious of her own model-childness. Because I needed to be the center of attention—the only state I’d ever known—I developed modest tricks that put me in the spotlight without having to sing or tap-dance or raise my voice: I ate beets, Brussels sprouts, and calf’s liver. I drank white milk, spurning the chocolate that was offered. I carried a book at all times, usually something recognized by these C-plus students as hard, literary, advanced for my years. I drew quietly with colored pencils during dorm meetings. I mastered the poker face when it came to tasting oddball salad-bar combinations (cottage cheese and ketchup, peanut butter on romaine) favored by adolescent girls so that I’d appear worldly and adventurous.

  Over the years, certain objects and rituals became synonymous with me: the wicker basket with its gingham lining in which the infant me attended classes; a ragged blanket that my psychologically astute parents let me drag everywhere until it dissolved; the lone swing that my father hung from the sturdiest red maple on campus; first a pink tricycle, then a pink two-wheeler, its handlebars sprouting streamers, which I garaged on the porch of Griggs Hall, no lock needed.

  I didn’t exactly raise myself, especially with five floors of honorary sisters living above me at all times. But there was the omnipresent ID card around my neck granting me entrance to all buildings and all meals, with or without a parent. Aviva and David were busy with their classes, their advisees, and increasingly their causes. Assassinations at home and wars abroad necessitated their boarding buses for marches in capital cities, but babysitters were plentiful. I was safe at Dewing, always, and good with strangers. Tall, spiked wrought-iron fencing surrounded our sixteen acres, a relic from the days of curfews and virginity.

  Between seventh and eighth grade, I grew tall; incoming freshmen took me for a baby-faced classmate, which was to me a distressing development. I had no intention of blending in. I wanted to be who I’d become, the Eloise of Dewing College, an institution that others, transients, occupied only fleetingly.

  Looking back today from adulthood, it’s too easy to idealize my childhood in an exurban Brigadoon, Boston skyline in the distance and, for the most part, kind girls in every chair. We hoped Dewing could get better, its standards higher, its students brighter, its admission competitive, but it wasn’t to be. Smart candidates would soon attend schools that accepted men and boasted hockey rinks. Housemothers came and went throughout my Dewing years. There was less intra-houseparent socializing than one would expect, given the geography of our lives. The older ladies, some carryovers from the secretarial training days, wore—or so it seemed to me—perpetual scowls. They couldn’t hide their disapproval of modern Mary-Ruths in blue jeans, of their unstockinged legs, their gentlemen callers, their birth control prescriptions. Where were the debutantes of old? The girls who wore fraternity pins on their pastel sweaters and foundation garments beneath them?

  My outside friends saw my home as the whole of Griggs Hall and beyond, its acres of campus lawn and flowering trees, vending machines on every floor, cool and pretty girls whose perfumed copies of Glamour, Mademoiselle, and Vogue beckoned from open mailboxes for hours before they were retrieved. They envied my long reign as the charter mascot. Often I came to school with my hair braided and adorned in intricate ways, courtesy of a team of boarders who preferred hairdressing to homework.

  Eventually everyone, even my unconventional and high-profile mother (union grievance chairperson, agitator, perennial professor of the year, and public breast-feeder), faded to gray in the archives of Dewing houseparenting. When I was sixteen, the college hired the enthralling and once glamorous Laura Lee French, most recently of Manhattan, maybe forty, maybe more, to pilot Ada Tibbets Hall, the artistic and wayward girls’ dorm next to Griggs. The timing was excellent: I was growing invisible by then, a teenager rather than a pet, despite the darling Halloween photos of me in every yearbook printed since my birth. Just as I was craving more attention, along came Laura Lee, dorm mother without a day job, single, childless, and ultimately famous within our gates.

  We overlapped for two years. It was awkward even for my parents, unembarrassable progressives though they were. Fearing scandal and campus glee, we four kept our secret: that Laura Lee French, in the distant past, had been married to my father.

  2

  The Pearls

  TO FILL YOU IN: A year before Laura Lee arrived to disturb the peace at Dewing, I found out that my mild-mannered and not especially good-looking father had been married before. I shouldn’t have found out the way I did—snooping around my grandmother’s house—or at the advanced age of fifteen, especially since my parents were famous for telling me more than I wanted to know. Suddenly, the huge presence that was my mother was demoted to the status of second wife. The evidence I unearthed in a bottom drawer of what had been my father’s childhood bedroom and shrine (still displaying his Erector-set projects, his stamp collection, and a map of the forty-eight United States) was a framed wedding photo of a young, bow-tied David Hatch and a stranger-bride. I waited for an opportunity to detonate this connubial bomb at home, perhaps to trade it for something tangible—a sweet-sixteen party or a ten-speed bike—to offset my indignation at being kept in the dark.

  I calculated too long: The truth trumped me at Christmas, in the form of a note from a Laura Lee French, saying she hoped I would think of her as my pre-stepmother and further hoped I would accept the enclosed in anticipation of—if she’d gotten her year right—a very important birthday. Swathed in lavender tissue paper was a rope of pearls, flapper-length and aged to ivory. The note read, “A family heirloom (genuine, not cultured) with sincere best wishes for a sweet sixteen.”

  My unbejeweled mother insisted I return the necklace to its sender. When I did, with a regretful note, hinting that the rebuff was not altogether my idea, the present bounced back. This time Laura Lee wrote that she had read between the lines and determined that I did want these pearls, which would undoubtedly come into fashion again. If she was wrong, and I truly did not want to accept the gift, I should save them for the daughter I might have someday. She wrote a separate note to my father, which I begged to see in the name of full disclosure and family frankness. Laura Lee wrote that she had never had children and never would, had finally forgiven him, and, though it was an illogical and, according to my mother, pathologically altruistic position—she considered me the daughter she never had.

  My parents were reasonable people, proud of their up-to-the-minute and public practice of child-rearing. At a remote table in the dining hall, in a rare assembly of all three busy Hatches, and, still rarer, displaying a ballpointed sign on lined paper that said, “Privacy, please,” we discussed Laura Lee’s note. Did I think it was right to accept an expensive present from a total stranger?

  “She’s not a stranger to you,” I said. “And certainly not to Dad.”

  “Are you angry that you haven’t known about her all along?” my father asked.

  I said, “I’ve known for longer than you think.”

  “How long?” asked my mother.

  I picked up my last cookie and nibbled it in a circular and dilatory fashion before answering. “Last time I was at Grandma’s I saw a photo of Dad wearing a tuxedo and looking about twenty-five, dancing with a woman wearing a wedding dress.”

  “And inferred what from that?” asked my father
.

  “Well, first I inferred that Mom looked much better with blond hair, makeup, and contact lenses. And then I inferred that it wasn’t Mom at all.”

  “Did you discuss this photograph with your grandmother?” my mother asked.

  “She saw me staring at it, and said, ‘That’s your father with Laura Lee.’ So I had to ask who Laura Lee was, and Grandma said, ‘A friend.’ I said, ‘It’s a wedding picture, isn’t it?’ and she said, ‘Sort of. Half a wedding picture. All the guests got their photo taken with the bride.’”

  “But you knew otherwise?” asked my father.

  “You didn’t look like friends,” I said.

  My mother asked how I felt about my grandmother’s fabrication.

  “I hate that she lied,” my father murmured.

  “She could have come to us,” said my mother. “She could have said, ‘I’m not comfortable keeping this fact from your daughter. I’d like you to tell her before her next visit.’”

  “She’s always been the queen of unilateral actions,” said my father.

  I shrugged. “Maybe she just liked the photograph. As art. Even if she had to hide it in a bottom drawer when company came.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked my mother. “Why did you call it ‘art’?”

  I said, not as kindly as I could have, “Because Laura Lee was so pretty.”

  “All brides are,” said my father.

  “Getting back to the present . . . ,” said my mother.

  “The necklace, she means,” said my father.

  “Maybe Laura Lee has a terminal illness,” I said. “Maybe she wants to give away all of her possessions before she dies so other people don’t have to clean out her house.”

  My father asked if I knew something they didn’t know, perhaps gleaned from my grandmother.

  “Are they still in touch?” I asked.