After the Reunion

After the Reunion

A Novel

Rona Jaffe

For Tom

1) What were your hopes, dreams, and expectations when you graduated from college, in terms of work, love, and family life
?

2) Did you achieve them
?

3) Was there a point in your life where your values, dreams, and/or expectations changed? Please explain
.

—
From a questionnaire sent to

the Radcliffe class of 1957 twenty-five years later

Prologue

People who still believe in good surprises are always young; the ones who have come to believe surprises can only be bad, or that there will no longer be any surprises at all, are old—no matter what their real age is. The phone rings late at night and the old ones think immediately of disaster: an accident, illness, death. The young ones simply think “I hope it’s for me.” Of course there are bad surprises; this is life after all, a grab bag. But there are also the other kind. They exist. They do.…

Emily Applebaum Buchman had always been afraid of everything, and now that she had come to a point in her life where she thought nothing much, either good or bad, would ever change, she was somewhere between resigned and content. She knew she had a life many other people would envy. She was a rich Beverly Hills housewife, still married to her college sweetheart Ken, who had become a very successful dermatologist, purveyor to the stars; they had two children, Peter and Kate, and her life was filled with charitable good works, healthy outdoor sports, friends, shopping, her family, her appearance, culture, reading … the life she had been intended for.

She was forty-six years old now, small and slim, with dark hair and large gray eyes, and her friends told her she was very attractive. This coming June would be her twenty-fifth reunion at Radcliffe, and Emily had decided not to go. She’d been to her twentieth, and had made good resolutions to have a more productive life, even a career, and had left happy and uplifted. The career had turned into part-time volunteer work at Children’s Hospital.

It was all right. Life was compromise. You gave up your job to make a home and have children, and then you found there was no room for you to come back. She’d never really been a career-oriented person anyway. She’d had the dream, but not the carry-through. All right.

But it was not all right.…

Her children had their own apartments and their own lives. They were no longer a family, if a family meant people who always came home to each other at night and shared their warmth against the cold world outside.

No, it was not all right.…

She supposed what had started her thinking in this discontented way again was that letter which had arrived in her mailbox this morning. It was from a woman who had gone to college with her, who was now a writer. Emily had never known her; it had been a big class. Besides, she’d spent almost all her college years going steady with Ken, not paying much attention to anybody. The writer enclosed a questionnaire which was research for an article she’d been assigned to do for
The Ladies’ Home Journal
—a sort of profile of what had happened to all the women she had gone to school with. Emily had sat in her dream kitchen in her dream house on top of the mountain, with the view of lush California foliage on one side and Los Angeles on the other, her swimming pool and tennis court just below her, and that questionnaire in her hand was like a small explosion.

“What were your hopes, dreams, and expectations when you graduated from college, in terms of work, love, and family life?”

Better she should have asked her what her dreams were when she first came to college. Bright, pretty, terrified little Emily, entering Radcliffe in 1953 under the Jewish quota, an outsider, with dreams of becoming a pediatrician. Popular, well-to-do Emily, who had more cashmere sweaters than any other girl in the dorm. A good girl who always tried to please, who did what she was told. Told by her freshman advisor that very first week, Orientation Week, that she could never become a doctor, that she was improperly prepared. No one had planned for Emily to have a career in medicine, or anything else for that matter. If Emily wanted so badly to be a doctor, her advisor said, then she should marry one instead.
A good girl who always did what she was told
. So Emily went right off and fell in love with Ken Buchman and captured him.

“What were your hopes and dreams when you graduated from college …?” Ken was her hopes and dreams. Marriage was, and a romantic, harmonious life.

Question Two: “Did you achieve them?” Of course. Oh, yes.
I was given the wrong dream to want and I got it
.

Emily folded the questionnaire neatly and hid it in her handbag. She would probably answer it. But she wouldn’t tell the truth. She would avoid the bad parts, the terrible things that had happened. They were nobody’s business but her own.

Christine Spark English sat in the den of her beautiful Fifth Avenue apartment overlooking Central Park. The sky was that tentative rose and gray color of twilight in the season between the end of winter and the beginning of spring in New York. She fingered the questionnaire which had arrived that morning in the mail and smiled wryly. She had been different from all her friends at college, and she was sure she was different from all her friends and colleagues now. She had been the only girl of their group in Briggs Hall who did not have money, and did not want to have fun or catch a husband at Harvard. She wanted to be a frumpy bookworm and disguised herself as one, but in spite of this her kindness, intelligence, and lethally accurate wit made her popular with the other girls, even though she didn’t want to have anything to do with their frivolous life. And then she saw Alexander.

Alexander English, whose dark beauty made her heart stop every time she looked at him. Moody, mysterious Alexander, whose own private grief and guilt spilled over into the lives of everyone who loved him. How she had pursued him, thinking he was hers at last, never seeing what strangers they really were to each other … filling in all his secret, hidden spaces with her own fantasies.…

“What were your hopes, dreams, and expectations when you graduated from college?” Alexander, of course. There had never been anything else. Chris’s entire life and being and raison d’être had always been Alexander and her magnificent obsession with him. And when she discovered he was homosexual and had been hiding it at school, she still stayed on her quest, hoping to win him, to change him, to make him want her. They became best friends. She became chic and sophisticated, no longer the mousy little schoolgirl. She waited.…

He did love her, finally. He married her. She supposed the girls back at school, who only remembered her pursuit of him and now saw the result, would have thought it a perfect happy ending. Chris and Alexander, together at last. Alexander, the handsome, successful New York banker, rising quickly in his father’s bank, and clever, attractive Chris, who had always worked in publishing in addition to raising their son, Nicholas. They went on exciting vacations all over the world, the three of them: Chris, Alexander, and their child. They entertained well. Their home life was so pleasant. What a good example she was of an interesting, multifaceted woman!
What a good front she kept up
.

“Was there a point in your life where your values, dreams, and / or expectations changed? Please explain.” When was there not? And how could she possibly explain, even if she were willing to? Alexander would cheat. And she would hope not to know.

Chris carefully tore the questionnaire into tiny strips. She couldn’t tell the truth, and she had no wish to lie. Let all the normal people answer it. She wouldn’t.

Annabel Jones made a paper airplane of the questionnaire and let it sail across the room into her wastebasket. Her aim was off and it landed on the floor. She wondered if that was an omen that she really couldn’t dispose of it—and the memories it brought back—so lightly. Annabel believed in omens. Sometimes they’d been right and sometimes wrong, but that didn’t stop her from thinking there was something to them. She’d always been a person who went by her instincts and desires, right or wrong, and because she was warmhearted and trusting she had sometimes been hurt. But she had never been stupid. She had only been too romantic. Not in the way her best friend Chris had been, with her obsession for Alexander, but romantic about everything in life, looking at it as if it were a big present. If she had to describe herself she would say that she had always been a rebel—with style.

At forty-six she was even more beautiful than she had been at college. She definitely believed that after forty you had the face you deserved, and to make sure of it she’d had a facelift, even though Radcliffe girls never had facelifts. She still had her tall, lithe figure, although she loathed every moment of the exercises she forced herself to do in her few spare moments from work. She still had her southern accent, even though she’d been living in New York for years. The half-floor-through in the East Side brownstone she’d found when she first came here and got her first job had become almost a national monument, and she never intended to give it up. She owned her own Madison Avenue boutique now, Annabel’s, she had a wonderful relationship with her twenty-two year old daughter Emma (although Emma was so busy with her own career that they hardly ever saw enough of each other) and she still slept with attractive much younger men whenever she had a mind to. Her adored new cat, Sweet Pea, a fluffy white Persian with one blue eye and one copper eye, went over to the questionnaire and tried to eat it. Sweet Pea would eat anything that was inedible. Annabel rescued the paper and held it in her hand, thinking.

It might be nice to be in a magazine. She could say: “I had no dreams and expectations and lived dramatically and happily.” Wouldn’t that serve them right, those priggish, hypocritical girls who had ostracized and hated her because she went all the way with men. What strange values they’d had then! Chris had been the only girl who had been her friend.

But no, it would take too long to tell them what her life had been, and besides, the past was history. She intended to live for the future. This time when she tossed the paper airplane away her aim was true.

Daphne Leeds Caldwell, the Golden Girl of Radcliffe’s class of 1957, married to Richard Caldwell, Harvard’s Golden Boy, looked at the questionnaire that had arrived that morning to ruin her day, and knew what was expected of her. People made you a star, and then you discovered you liked it, and you tried to keep on being what they wanted. She’d had a charmed life based on secrets and deception. There were many different ways of being special, and she had made sure everyone knew only the good ones. The Connecticut night was cold, with the heavy feeling of snow coming; a cozy sort of night, the kind she liked. She lit the fire in the living room so that when Richard came home from the city he would be greeted by its cheer, and put ice cubes into the bucket on the bar for his evening drink. The large house was very quiet and neat with all the boys away at school. Daphne poured herself a glass of wine and went to sit by the fire with the questionnaire, wondering what she would write.

At college all the girls—except Chris and Annabel—had admired her and wanted to be like her. She was a tall, beautiful blonde with slightly slanted cornflower-blue eyes; a color so intense they were the first thing you saw when she came toward you. She was a rich debutante, bright, athletic, feminine, cool, and very popular. While most girls were happy to have only one date, often Daphne had two young men bearing her off between them like a treasure. It was inevitable that she and Richard should have ended up together. Dating in the Fifties was a genetic auction: girls were to be mothers, and the best sought the best. But what a lonely lie she had lived! She had been an epileptic ever since she was a child, and she knew no one would marry her if he found out. He wouldn’t want his children to have it; he wouldn’t even want
her
. People knew so little about epilepsy in those days—they thought you would fall to the floor in a convulsive fit while they stood by in helpless horror and disgust—and in fact that had happened to her as a child. But they didn’t know that there were medications to control such things, and that not all epileptics were alike, or that it was possible to outgrow the worst of it and seem so exactly like everyone else that nobody would ever know. No one
had
known about Daphne’s epilepsy, even Richard, not in all their years together, until she told him. He had reacted as if she had betrayed him: not because she wasn’t perfect, but because she had kept an important secret from him all these years, hadn’t trusted him … and now he suspected she might have kept others.

And she had.

But she had only done it to keep their marriage happy, without tumultuous crises and arguments that would wound them both and never be resolved. When you lived with someone you learned when to keep quiet about some things. Her one revelation had made a crack in their marriage somehow, and it had never really mended, only been covered by the fragile veneer of the happy years that followed.