From the moment they drove up her parents' driveway the night before
Thanksgiving, Kirsten knew that bringing Sandy was a terrible idea.
"Christ, Kirsten," Mark exclaimed. "This is your house? What exactly does
your dad do for a living?"
"He's a real estate developer," she said. "He builds houses and malls and stuff." For the first time in her life, Kirsten found that fact vaguely embarrassing. She wasn't ashamed that her parents were rich: they had worked hard for every cent they had. But she was ashamed of having taken her money for granted. Looking at the glass and chrome, all lit up against the night, Kirsten realized for the first time that the house was not just big but enormous. She'd always known that her home was larger than most of her friends', the location fancier, the view a little better. But she now realized that she'd had no idea how wealthy her parents were, that her idea of normal was all skewed. Her parents weren't just richer than ordinary folks; they were richer than rich people, too. She hadn't even realized that she'd only known rich people. Sandy and Mark looked awed.
"I've never stayed in a house like this before," Sandy admitted after Mark drove off. "Actually, I've never stayed in a house, period. City kid," he shrugged, but Kirsten sensed that he was a bit taken aback. He joked about her being a rich girl, but it occurred to her that he'd assumed the Nichols were the kind of wealthy that allowed you to buy a Mercedes, not the kind where you could buy a plane or a yacht. Sandy was rarely intimidated, but he seemed a little overwhelmed.
One look at her father, when he came out to meet them, told Kirsten that Caleb wouldn't be in any mood to make Sandy feel at home. He hugged Kirsten and asked her snidely if her shirt came from the Salvation Army, and she rolled her eyes, even though it was close enough to the truth. "This is Sandy Cohen, daddy," she said proudly, and her father eyed Sandy with overt contempt.
"The boyfriend," he said, making no attempt to hide his distaste. Kirsten knew that her father loved her. He might want to control her; he might resent her attempts to be her own person; he might use his money to manipulate her; but he would always love her. But she suddenly realized he had no obligation to love her boyfriend. She'd wanted to parade Sandy in front of her parents because he was proof of her independence, because he was the last person in the world they would have chosen for their daughter. And her father was going to loathe him for exactly that reason. Sandy was the walking, talking embodiment of Kirsten's rebellion. She couldn't believe she was doing this. She loved Sandy, and she was about to subject him to worst her father had to offer. She wished she could send him back to Berkeley right now, but it was too late.
Her mother's appearance bought her a brief reprieve. Susan Nichol showed Sandy to the guest room and suggested that Sandy, Kirsten and Caleb have a drink on the patio while she got Hailey to bed.
"Can I see her first, mom?" Kirsten asked.
"I think that might be a bit too much excitement right before bedtime," Mrs. Nichol said lightly, and Kirsten felt a stab of guilt. A year was forever to a four-year-old. Would Hailey even recognize her?
Kirsten made her father one of her famous gin and tonics and poured Cokes for Sandy and herself. She briefly thought that alcohol would fortify them for the coming conversation, but ultimately decided they both needed to have their wits about them.
"So Sandy," Caleb Nichol started, "Cohen's a Jewish name, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Sandy said, surprised. "It means 'priest' in Hebrew, actually."
"I've always admired the Jews," Caleb said, the slightest hint of malice in his voice. "Good with money, your people. Thrifty. I can tell you're the thrifty type: you didn't spend any more than you needed to on that shirt, did you? No wasting money to get Brooks Brothers."
Kirsten saw Sandy redden slightly. She knew that the short-sleeved oxford shirt and chinos he was wearing were his best clothes, the ones he reserved for things like job interviews or when he needed to accompany one of the clients at the legal aid clinic to court. That morning he'd joked that he hoped her parents appreciated him wearing his fancy clothes for them. She knew that Sandy wasn't stingy; he was just broke. But she also suspected that he'd had no idea that his clothes looked cheap. And now he did. Her father, she thought, knew exactly what he was doing: only another upwardly-mobile poor kid could be so attuned to Sandy's vulnerabilities. She tried desperately to come up with some way to shut him up, but everything should could think to say would just add to Sandy's humiliation.
Sandy, however, gave no other indication that he was bothered. "Well," he said, "I'm payin' my own way through law school, so I try to save money whenever I can. I'm not sure that's really a Jewish thing."
"Oh, come on, Sandy," Kirsten's father said. "Law school is certainly a Jewish thing. The best lawyers I know are all Jewish. Nice job, being a lawyer. Everything I earn, the lawyers get a cut. That's another thing I admire about your people: you seem to have an amazing aptitude for making money without doing any of the really hard work. Don't you agree?"
Kirsten was pretty sure her father didn't have any problem with Jewish people. He played golf with Al Berger at least once a week, and he hadn't raised an eyebrow when Kirsten had briefly dated the Bergers' son Joel in 9th grade. This, Kirsten thought, was a test. And it was a test that Sandy could only fail. If he let the remark pass, he was weak. If he said something, he was rude. "Stop it, dad!" Kirsten said furiously, willing Sandy to be rude.
Kirsten saw anger in Sandy's blue eyes, but his voice was steady. "I don't know Mr. Nichol," he said, taking in the pool and the beachfront view. "You seem to be doing pretty well for a goy."
"I work damn hard for my money," her father exclaimed.
"Yeah, well, unless you personally bang in every nail in those houses, maybe we should ask the guys who actually build the stuff whether they think you're the one doing the hard work." Kirsten thought Sandy was making an effort not to let Caleb rile him, but he raised his voice ever so slightly. "How much does a construction worker make a year? As much as you spent on your patio furniture, you think?"
"What are we talking about?" Kirsten's mother asked, making her way through the enormous glass doors that led from the living room to the patio. Kirsten was relieved to see her. She was sure that would put an end to any discussion of "the Jews." If there was anyone in the world her father feared, it was her mother, and Susan Nichol would never tolerate that kind of rudeness.
"I was just asking Sandy what his father does for a living," Caleb asked gruffly.
"Were you?" Sandy replied. Caleb looked at him expectantly, so Sandy told him, "he was a cop." Kirsten thought she heard something artificially casual in his voice, like he was trying not to reveal a weakness. Maybe he was just struggling to keep his temper in check.
"How admirable. What does he do now?" her father prodded.
"He died when I was 12," Sandy said evenly. This was news to Kirsten. How could she have dated a guy for months and not know that his father was dead? Sandy wasn't one of those guys who seemed to bottle things up. He was always ranting about some article in The Nation that pissed him off, or how amazing the new Afrika Bambaataa single was, or how it was impossible to get a decent bagel in the Bay Area. It was easy to mistake Sandy for a guy who wore his feelings on his sleeve. But she now realized that there was a lot of stuff that he didn't talk about.
"No doubt he was heroically killed in the line of duty," Caleb said harshly, and both Kirsten and her mother flinched. Sandy glared at him. "No," he said simply.
"A heart attack? A bar fight? I have a right to know exactly what kind of family my daughter is getting involved with."
"I'm not discussing this with you," Sandy said angrily.
"That's enough, Cal," Kirsten's mother interjected, and Kirsten detected a hint of steel beneath her mild tone. She turned to Sandy. "Kirsten's father and I both lost parents young. That's a terrible thing for anyone to go through. I'm sorry." And she did what she always did: she smoothed things over, she made up for Caleb's bad manners, she announced they were going to bed and led her husband off to read him the riot act. Susan Nichol seemed to all the world the perfect helpmeet, but Kirsten knew that she kept Caleb in line. She had a feeling this was the last time her father would be around Sandy without her mother chaperoning.
"I am so sorry about that," Kirsten told Sandy after her parents left.
"Not your fault," he responded tersely, and she could tell he was still pissed off.
"No," she sighed. "It sort of is. I should have known he'd do something like that. He's mad at me, but he doesn't want to admit it, so he's taking it out on you. He's just picking on you to get back at me."
"That's reassuring," Sandy said sarcastically. "I'm sure tomorrow he'll come around, forgive you for having a mind of your own, offer me a job with his company, join B'nai Brith."
"What's B'nai Brith?" she asked.
"Not important. A Jewish thing."
She sighed again. "I don't think he really has anything against Jewish people. He was just trying to get your goat."
"Yeah, right." Sandy said. "He thinks we're stingy and we cheat people out of their money, but other than that, we're great. His real problem with me is my cheap shirts."
"There's nothing wrong with your clothes, Sandy. He was just trying to make you feel bad. He grew up poor, too, and he knows what buttons to push."
"I didn't grow up poor, Kirsten," Sandy said, his voice cold and low. "I grew up normal. I'm not the weird one here."
"You know, I actually don't know anything about how you grew up, Sandy," she said, irritated at his implied insult. "You never talk about it. You never talk about your family."
"Am I supposed to apologize for that?" he asked. "Because you didn't exactly tell me that your father was a millionaire. Or a bigot."
Kirsten felt a perverse desire to defend her father, to explain to Sandy how much she'd hurt him to make him lash out like that. But she was sure it would be useless when Sandy was so angry at Caleb and, she realized when he spoke again, at her.
"Are you dating me just to piss your father off?" he demanded.
Kirsten felt stricken, and then she was furious. "If you really think I'm that kind of person," she hissed at him "you shouldn't be going out with me." But there was a tiny bit of truth to that accusation, because although Kirsten was not dating Sandy to rebel against her parents, that was part of the reason she'd brought him home. A big part. She was the most selfish, hateful girlfriend in the whole world, she thought, staring at the pool. When she looked back up at him, there were tears in her eyes.
"I'm dating you because you're the smartest, funniest, hottest guy I've ever met. My father would hate anyone I was with right now, because I'm not letting him dictate everything about my life, and I'm not submitting my boyfriend for his approval. But I don't want to be with any guy. I want to be with you. And it has nothing to do with my dad."
She saw his anger soften into something like resignation. "Ok," he said. "I'm beat. I'm going to bed, and tomorrow we'll figure out how to get through the next three days without me throttling your father."
"Are you ever going to tell me about your family" she asked, "now that you've seen mine in all its glory?"
"I don't know," he answered. "Not tonight." As he made his way quietly back into the house, Kirsten couldn't decide whether she felt more embarrassed about her father or guilty for putting Sandy through that or hurt that he'd never trusted her enough to tell her the really important things about his life.
"He's a real estate developer," she said. "He builds houses and malls and stuff." For the first time in her life, Kirsten found that fact vaguely embarrassing. She wasn't ashamed that her parents were rich: they had worked hard for every cent they had. But she was ashamed of having taken her money for granted. Looking at the glass and chrome, all lit up against the night, Kirsten realized for the first time that the house was not just big but enormous. She'd always known that her home was larger than most of her friends', the location fancier, the view a little better. But she now realized that she'd had no idea how wealthy her parents were, that her idea of normal was all skewed. Her parents weren't just richer than ordinary folks; they were richer than rich people, too. She hadn't even realized that she'd only known rich people. Sandy and Mark looked awed.
"I've never stayed in a house like this before," Sandy admitted after Mark drove off. "Actually, I've never stayed in a house, period. City kid," he shrugged, but Kirsten sensed that he was a bit taken aback. He joked about her being a rich girl, but it occurred to her that he'd assumed the Nichols were the kind of wealthy that allowed you to buy a Mercedes, not the kind where you could buy a plane or a yacht. Sandy was rarely intimidated, but he seemed a little overwhelmed.
One look at her father, when he came out to meet them, told Kirsten that Caleb wouldn't be in any mood to make Sandy feel at home. He hugged Kirsten and asked her snidely if her shirt came from the Salvation Army, and she rolled her eyes, even though it was close enough to the truth. "This is Sandy Cohen, daddy," she said proudly, and her father eyed Sandy with overt contempt.
"The boyfriend," he said, making no attempt to hide his distaste. Kirsten knew that her father loved her. He might want to control her; he might resent her attempts to be her own person; he might use his money to manipulate her; but he would always love her. But she suddenly realized he had no obligation to love her boyfriend. She'd wanted to parade Sandy in front of her parents because he was proof of her independence, because he was the last person in the world they would have chosen for their daughter. And her father was going to loathe him for exactly that reason. Sandy was the walking, talking embodiment of Kirsten's rebellion. She couldn't believe she was doing this. She loved Sandy, and she was about to subject him to worst her father had to offer. She wished she could send him back to Berkeley right now, but it was too late.
Her mother's appearance bought her a brief reprieve. Susan Nichol showed Sandy to the guest room and suggested that Sandy, Kirsten and Caleb have a drink on the patio while she got Hailey to bed.
"Can I see her first, mom?" Kirsten asked.
"I think that might be a bit too much excitement right before bedtime," Mrs. Nichol said lightly, and Kirsten felt a stab of guilt. A year was forever to a four-year-old. Would Hailey even recognize her?
Kirsten made her father one of her famous gin and tonics and poured Cokes for Sandy and herself. She briefly thought that alcohol would fortify them for the coming conversation, but ultimately decided they both needed to have their wits about them.
"So Sandy," Caleb Nichol started, "Cohen's a Jewish name, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Sandy said, surprised. "It means 'priest' in Hebrew, actually."
"I've always admired the Jews," Caleb said, the slightest hint of malice in his voice. "Good with money, your people. Thrifty. I can tell you're the thrifty type: you didn't spend any more than you needed to on that shirt, did you? No wasting money to get Brooks Brothers."
Kirsten saw Sandy redden slightly. She knew that the short-sleeved oxford shirt and chinos he was wearing were his best clothes, the ones he reserved for things like job interviews or when he needed to accompany one of the clients at the legal aid clinic to court. That morning he'd joked that he hoped her parents appreciated him wearing his fancy clothes for them. She knew that Sandy wasn't stingy; he was just broke. But she also suspected that he'd had no idea that his clothes looked cheap. And now he did. Her father, she thought, knew exactly what he was doing: only another upwardly-mobile poor kid could be so attuned to Sandy's vulnerabilities. She tried desperately to come up with some way to shut him up, but everything should could think to say would just add to Sandy's humiliation.
Sandy, however, gave no other indication that he was bothered. "Well," he said, "I'm payin' my own way through law school, so I try to save money whenever I can. I'm not sure that's really a Jewish thing."
"Oh, come on, Sandy," Kirsten's father said. "Law school is certainly a Jewish thing. The best lawyers I know are all Jewish. Nice job, being a lawyer. Everything I earn, the lawyers get a cut. That's another thing I admire about your people: you seem to have an amazing aptitude for making money without doing any of the really hard work. Don't you agree?"
Kirsten was pretty sure her father didn't have any problem with Jewish people. He played golf with Al Berger at least once a week, and he hadn't raised an eyebrow when Kirsten had briefly dated the Bergers' son Joel in 9th grade. This, Kirsten thought, was a test. And it was a test that Sandy could only fail. If he let the remark pass, he was weak. If he said something, he was rude. "Stop it, dad!" Kirsten said furiously, willing Sandy to be rude.
Kirsten saw anger in Sandy's blue eyes, but his voice was steady. "I don't know Mr. Nichol," he said, taking in the pool and the beachfront view. "You seem to be doing pretty well for a goy."
"I work damn hard for my money," her father exclaimed.
"Yeah, well, unless you personally bang in every nail in those houses, maybe we should ask the guys who actually build the stuff whether they think you're the one doing the hard work." Kirsten thought Sandy was making an effort not to let Caleb rile him, but he raised his voice ever so slightly. "How much does a construction worker make a year? As much as you spent on your patio furniture, you think?"
"What are we talking about?" Kirsten's mother asked, making her way through the enormous glass doors that led from the living room to the patio. Kirsten was relieved to see her. She was sure that would put an end to any discussion of "the Jews." If there was anyone in the world her father feared, it was her mother, and Susan Nichol would never tolerate that kind of rudeness.
"I was just asking Sandy what his father does for a living," Caleb asked gruffly.
"Were you?" Sandy replied. Caleb looked at him expectantly, so Sandy told him, "he was a cop." Kirsten thought she heard something artificially casual in his voice, like he was trying not to reveal a weakness. Maybe he was just struggling to keep his temper in check.
"How admirable. What does he do now?" her father prodded.
"He died when I was 12," Sandy said evenly. This was news to Kirsten. How could she have dated a guy for months and not know that his father was dead? Sandy wasn't one of those guys who seemed to bottle things up. He was always ranting about some article in The Nation that pissed him off, or how amazing the new Afrika Bambaataa single was, or how it was impossible to get a decent bagel in the Bay Area. It was easy to mistake Sandy for a guy who wore his feelings on his sleeve. But she now realized that there was a lot of stuff that he didn't talk about.
"No doubt he was heroically killed in the line of duty," Caleb said harshly, and both Kirsten and her mother flinched. Sandy glared at him. "No," he said simply.
"A heart attack? A bar fight? I have a right to know exactly what kind of family my daughter is getting involved with."
"I'm not discussing this with you," Sandy said angrily.
"That's enough, Cal," Kirsten's mother interjected, and Kirsten detected a hint of steel beneath her mild tone. She turned to Sandy. "Kirsten's father and I both lost parents young. That's a terrible thing for anyone to go through. I'm sorry." And she did what she always did: she smoothed things over, she made up for Caleb's bad manners, she announced they were going to bed and led her husband off to read him the riot act. Susan Nichol seemed to all the world the perfect helpmeet, but Kirsten knew that she kept Caleb in line. She had a feeling this was the last time her father would be around Sandy without her mother chaperoning.
"I am so sorry about that," Kirsten told Sandy after her parents left.
"Not your fault," he responded tersely, and she could tell he was still pissed off.
"No," she sighed. "It sort of is. I should have known he'd do something like that. He's mad at me, but he doesn't want to admit it, so he's taking it out on you. He's just picking on you to get back at me."
"That's reassuring," Sandy said sarcastically. "I'm sure tomorrow he'll come around, forgive you for having a mind of your own, offer me a job with his company, join B'nai Brith."
"What's B'nai Brith?" she asked.
"Not important. A Jewish thing."
She sighed again. "I don't think he really has anything against Jewish people. He was just trying to get your goat."
"Yeah, right." Sandy said. "He thinks we're stingy and we cheat people out of their money, but other than that, we're great. His real problem with me is my cheap shirts."
"There's nothing wrong with your clothes, Sandy. He was just trying to make you feel bad. He grew up poor, too, and he knows what buttons to push."
"I didn't grow up poor, Kirsten," Sandy said, his voice cold and low. "I grew up normal. I'm not the weird one here."
"You know, I actually don't know anything about how you grew up, Sandy," she said, irritated at his implied insult. "You never talk about it. You never talk about your family."
"Am I supposed to apologize for that?" he asked. "Because you didn't exactly tell me that your father was a millionaire. Or a bigot."
Kirsten felt a perverse desire to defend her father, to explain to Sandy how much she'd hurt him to make him lash out like that. But she was sure it would be useless when Sandy was so angry at Caleb and, she realized when he spoke again, at her.
"Are you dating me just to piss your father off?" he demanded.
Kirsten felt stricken, and then she was furious. "If you really think I'm that kind of person," she hissed at him "you shouldn't be going out with me." But there was a tiny bit of truth to that accusation, because although Kirsten was not dating Sandy to rebel against her parents, that was part of the reason she'd brought him home. A big part. She was the most selfish, hateful girlfriend in the whole world, she thought, staring at the pool. When she looked back up at him, there were tears in her eyes.
"I'm dating you because you're the smartest, funniest, hottest guy I've ever met. My father would hate anyone I was with right now, because I'm not letting him dictate everything about my life, and I'm not submitting my boyfriend for his approval. But I don't want to be with any guy. I want to be with you. And it has nothing to do with my dad."
She saw his anger soften into something like resignation. "Ok," he said. "I'm beat. I'm going to bed, and tomorrow we'll figure out how to get through the next three days without me throttling your father."
"Are you ever going to tell me about your family" she asked, "now that you've seen mine in all its glory?"
"I don't know," he answered. "Not tonight." As he made his way quietly back into the house, Kirsten couldn't decide whether she felt more embarrassed about her father or guilty for putting Sandy through that or hurt that he'd never trusted her enough to tell her the really important things about his life.