Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(110)

“Hey, Teddy!” Gerry Jaffe called out, offering the palms of his hands. “What's happenin', my man?”

Teddy slapped him ten. “Hey, Gerry! I haven't seen you in a couple of weeks. Where have you been?”

“In court, kiddo, defending some people who did a little damage to the Shoreham nuclear power plant.”

“Did you win?”

“You might say that it was a draw.”

Gerry never regretted the decision he'd reached in Mexico ten years before to come back to the United States, face the New York City cops and their trumped-up drug charge, and then, after his name was cleared, go on to law school. One by one, he had watched the leaders of the Movement change direction—Eldridge Cleaver's soul no longer on ice but dedicated to Jesus, Jerry Rubin sucking up to capitalism, Bobby Seale peddling barbecue sauce. Abbie Hoffman was still around, but he was caught up in environmental causes, which left it up to Gerry Jaffe, the last of the sixties radicals, to draw the attention of the world away from stainless-steel pasta machines and designer pizzas and back to the possibility of nuclear winter. With all his heart, Gerry believed that the future rested on his shoulders, and the heavier the weight of responsibility, the more he played the clown.

After giving Naomi a smack on the lips, he leaned down to speak directly to her belly. “Listen up, kid, this is Uncle Gerry talking. The world sucks. Stay in there as long as you can.”

Teddy thought this was hysterically funny and began to roll on the floor, shrieking with laughter. This action brought him the attention of all the adults, so he laughed louder, until he ceased being cute and became merely annoying. Naomi believed in letting children express themselves, so she didn't reprimand him, and Holly Grace, who didn't believe any such thing, was too distracted by the sight of Gerry's impressive shoulders straining the seams of his worn leather bomber jacket to call Teddy to task.

In 1980, not long after Gerry had passed the New York Bar exam, he had given up his Afro, but he still wore his hair long in the back so that the dark curls, now lightly threaded with gray, fell over his collar. Beneath his leather jacket, he was wearing his normal work attire—baggy khaki trousers and a cotton fatigue sweater. A No Nukes button graced the jacket collar. His mouth was as full and sensuous as ever, his nose as bold, and his zealot's eyes still black and burning. That exact pair of eyes had done in Holly Grace Beaudine a year ago when she and Gerry had found themselves shoved into a corner together at one of Naomi's parties.

Holly Grace still had a hard time explaining to herself what it was about Gerry Jaffe that had made her fall in love with him. It certainly hadn't been his politics. She honestly believed in the importance of a strong military defense for the United States, a position that drove him wild. They had raging political arguments, which generally ended in some of the most incredible lovemaking she had experienced in years. Gerry, who had few inhibitions in public, had even fewer in the bedroom.

But her attraction to him was more than sexual. For one thing, he was as physically active as she. During the three months of their affair they had taken skydiving lessons together, gone mountain climbing, and even tried hang gliding. Being with him was like living in a never-ending adventure. She loved the excitement he engendered around him. She loved his passion and his zeal, the zest with which he ate his food, his uninhibited laughter, his unabashed sentimentality. She had once walked into the room and found him crying at a Kodak television commercial, and when she had teased him about it, he hadn't made a single excuse. She had even grown to love his male chauvinism. Unlike Dallie who, despite his good ol' boy demeanor, had always been the most liberated man she'd ever known, Gerry clung to ideas about male-female relationships that were firmly entrenched in the fifties. And Gerry always looked so befuddled when she confronted him with it, so crestfallen that he—the darling of the radicals—couldn't seem to comprehend one of the most basic principles of an entire social revolution.

“Hello, Holly Grace,” he said, walking toward her.

She leaned over to put her sticky strawberry daiquiri on the coffee table and tried to look at him as if she couldn't quite remember his name. “Oh, hi, Gerry.”

Her ploy didn't work. He came closer, his compact body advancing with a determination that sent a shiver of apprehension through her. “Don't you dare touch me, you commie terrorist,” she warned, thrusting out her hand as if it held a crucifix that could ward him off.

He stepped past the coffee table.

“I mean it, Gerry.”

“What are you afraid of, babe?”

“Afraid!” she scoffed, taking three steps back. “Me? Afraid of you? In your dreams, you left-wing pinko.”

“God, Holly Grace, you've got a mouth on you.” He stopped in front of her and without turning addressed his sister. “Naomi, could you and Teddy find something to do in the kitchen for a few minutes?”

“Don't even think about leaving, Naomi,” Holly Grace ordered.

“Sorry, Holly Grace, but tension isn't good for a pregnant woman. Come on, Teddy. Let's go make some popcorn.”

Holly Grace took a deep breath. This time she wouldn't allow Gerry to get the best of her, no matter what he did. Their affair had lasted for three months, and he'd taken advantage of her the entire time. While she had been falling in love, he had been merely using her celebrity as a way of getting his name in the newspapers so he could publicize his anti-nuclear activities. Holly Grace couldn't believe what a sucker she'd been. Old radicals never changed. They just got law degrees and updated their bag of tricks.