Summer of '69(60)

“No.” Jessie can’t believe what she’s about to say. But yes, she must say it. The words are collecting at the back of her throat like an angry crowd. Thirteen, she reminds herself, is an age of maturity and responsibility. “Nonny won’t let me sign the name Levin at the club,” Jessie says. “Because she’s anti-Semitic.”

Jessie isn’t sure what she expected—shocked indignation, anger, incredulousness—but it isn’t her mother laughing. Kate throws her head back to expose her neck and her pearls. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

A lump rises in Jessie’s throat. “Mom,” she says in a wavering voice. “It’s my name.” It’s your name too, she wants to say, but Kate, of course, has other names to choose from, so she might not feel as attached to Levin as Jessie does.

Kate notes Jessie’s tone or perhaps the expression on her face and sobers. “Yes, darling, it’s your name. You should be very proud of it and I will have a chat with your grandmother. I wouldn’t go so far as to say your grandmother is an anti-Semite, although it’s true she’s not fond of your father.”

Jessie is aghast to hear the words spoken so plainly. “But why not? Dad is—”

“The most wonderful man in the world,” Kate says. “You and I agree on that. But your grandmother was partial to Wilder.”

Jessie sinks into herself. Alice shows up with the wide wooden bowl and the ingredients for the Caesar salad. With a heavy heart, Jessie watches her surprisingly adept performance. Alice crushes the garlic and anchovies into a paste, streams the olive oil from a dramatic height, cranks a pepper grinder that’s as long as Jessie’s arm, adds an egg yolk and a teaspoon of French mustard, then tosses the crisp romaine lettuce until the leaves are evenly coated. For the finale, she shaves near-translucent pieces of Parmesan on top. The tableside preparation of the Caesar is one of the reasons Jessie loves the Mad Hatter more than any other restaurant, and yet tonight, she is too preoccupied to enjoy it.

Exalta was partial to Wilder Foley. So where does that leave Jessie? Nowhere good.

Once Alice goes, Kate regards the plate of salad before her. “Of course, Nonny had no idea what Wilder was really like. He was…well, he was a bastard is what he was.”

Jessie tries not to be shocked at the swear word. She has never heard anyone in the family say one bad thing about Wilder Foley. He was a career soldier—an infantryman in World War II, a lieutenant in Korea—and that automatically made him a hero. And he had died so tragically, a gun accident in his workshop, when Jessie’s siblings were so young, when he was so young. Only thirty-three years old. Jessie has mixed feelings about the death of Wilder Foley. It’s a sad and upsetting story and she feels brokenhearted for Blair, Kirby, and Tiger—but if Wilder hadn’t died, Jessie wouldn’t exist.

Blair kept a picture of Wilder Foley in her room growing up; in it, he wore a jacket covered with ribbons and medals. Jessie used to stare at the picture, trying to pick out the features that were replicated in her siblings. Wilder Foley was very, very handsome, much handsomer than David Levin, and so Jessie had always imagined that Kate had merely settled for the soulful, dark-eyed attorney after losing her gorgeous first husband. To hear her call Wilder a bastard is eye-opening, to say the very least.

“What did he do?” Jessie asks.

Kate sucks back the rest of her martini. “What didn’t he do?” she asks, and then she nods at Jessie’s plate. “Eat up.”



They walk home with three to-go boxes: the scampi, the steak and potato, and the strawberry shortcake. Jessie decides she will wait up for Pick; Kate will forget all about the food, and Jessie can stash it in the fridge at Little Fair. Jessie isn’t sure if her birthday dinner was a success or not; she’s just glad they made it out of the restaurant without incident.

When they turn onto Fair Street, Kate says, “I know what you’re thinking.”

Jessie hopes this isn’t true.

“You’re thinking I didn’t get you a birthday present,” Kate says.

“I don’t want anything,” Jessie says. She touches her grandmother’s necklace and thinks about her Tree of Life pendant and about the record album she has yet to listen to. The gifts themselves don’t mean as much as the thoughts behind them. Jessie knows her mother loves her. Jessie also knows her mother is sad. All Jessie wants is for Tiger to come home, but if she says this, her mother will cry.

“I’m going to give you the gift of freedom,” Kate says. They are now standing in front of St. Paul’s Episcopal, their church, so the sidewalk is lit. Jessie’s mother turns to face her and takes both of her hands. “As long as you continue to go to tennis lessons with Nonny, I’ll let you ride your bike to the beach by yourself in the afternoons.”

“You will?” Jessie says.

“I will.”

Jessie can’t believe it. No more afternoons sitting home with Anne Frank. She can go meet Pick. That’s all she’s thinking. She can be with Pick.

When they get home, Kate goes up to bed and Jessie heads over to Little Fair with the bag of leftovers. She’s dizzy with excitement. It’s nine thirty already, so there’s only an hour left until Pick gets home from work. Jessie is relieved to see the door to Mr. Crimmins’s bedroom is closed; this means he’s asleep or he’s reading his novel and will soon be asleep. Jessie climbs the stairs quietly, quietly, and turns on only one light, the light over the sink, which is a forty-watt bulb that bathes the upstairs in twilight. She puts the shortcake in the fridge and leaves the entrées out; their boxes are still warm.