CHAPTER NINE

            You give your hand to me, and then you say hello
            And I can hardly speak, my heart is beating so
            Anyone can tell, you think you know me well,
            But you don’t know me at all.

            You give your hand to me, and then you say good-bye
            And then I watch you walk away, beside the lucky guy
            I know you’ll never know, the one who loves you so
            No, you don’t know me.
                                    Ray Charles, You Don’t Know Me

            You say good-by and I say hello,
            Hello, hello….
                                    The Beatles


     When Marrett reached the bottom of the ramp that fed into the rotunda, she dropped her heavy suitcase and dragged it the rest of the way across the concourse to the information booth. It was already ringed with travelers, but she managed to wedge her suitcase in an unclaimed spot about ten feet from their meeting place. She pushed up the left sleeve of her camel hair coat and checked her watch. She was early. She scanned the crowd, shifting her weight from one foot to the other before sitting down on her upright suitcase. She deposited her shoulder carryall—loaded with all the books and class notes she’d planned to read during the break but hadn’t—on the floor next to her luggage, and positioned her good leather pocketbook on her knees, keeping a secure hold on it with both hands. The money earned working in Maison Mason’s stockroom during the Thanksgiving weekend was tucked in her wallet and she wasn’t about to share it with any pickpocket.
     Light showered down from the vaulted skylight, crisscrossing the cavernous waiting room. Marrret’s eyes traced the light to its source: a stained glass dome that sat like a crown atop the soaring ceiling. The ceiling was a shade of blue she couldn’t quite put a name to—azure or cerulean—but the effect was celestial. Instead of stars the surface was a swirl of painted blue and gold figurines. From this angle, Grand Central Station seemed like a cathedral, magnificent, glorious—except being here was much better because the place was buzzing with people, people she didn’t know, people she might meet, people who might be glamorous and oh, who knew then what could happen!
     She couldn’t help smiling. Glorious, that was how she was feeling. And a little glamorous too, as she peeled off her new leather gloves and admired her matching pumps, also new and marked down thirty per cent after her employee discount. And thankful—at last!—to be who she was: young, but old enough to drink a daiquiri in New York, and free, in an abstract, philosophical way, of course, with enough money to last until the Christmas holidays. And soon Kitty and Caro and Delilah would join her.
     Taking another peek at her watch, she calculated that in just about one hour the day would be half over. She hadn’t thought about Hunter at all today. Progress. She straightened her back. Surveying anew the majestic surroundings and her fellow passengers, she felt at one with this noisy, crazy world pressing around her. Whether departing or arriving, each person at this moment had a purpose, a destination, a reason to wake up and rush here. Just like she did.
     What’s more, she vowed, tomorrow she would get up extra early to study and get a head start on her classes. If she did that every morning for the next three years, she’d definitely make Phi Beta Kappa. Then take out loans and go to a top law school. Then slave non-stop in law school and get a job at some prestigious Wall Street firm. A white shoe firm, that’s what the newspapers called them, although why anyone would wear white shoes to practice law eluded her. At one point in time white shoes must have symbolized something exclusive, but all she could think of was the thick-soled shoes worn by nurses or the white bucks she pestered her mother to buy in junior high so she’d look like the other kids. Her mother polished them every night, but on the way to school she’d scuff them up so they’d look cool.
     She made a mental note to become more serious. Forget clothes. Forget money. Except to pay off loans. Stop being so superficial and aim for a nobler path, like getting a clerkship at the Supreme Court and dedicating her life to constitutional issues. Eventually be appointed a Supreme Court Justice. The first female! But you had to be brilliant for that, and she wasn’t brilliant. Still, she could become a judge at some lower level. The Honorable Marrett Kiivi! She’d defend the poor and the downtrodden—fight for all the reasons her family came here.
     She tried to picture herself in black robes, wielding a gavel. Instead the image of Pastor Reinaruu came to mind: gray hair slicked to one side to hide his receding hairline, pale eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses, the sleeves of his clerical gown spread open like the wings of some giant bat as he intoned the benediction in Estonian. She’d been bored and resentful all those Sundays, letting the sonorous play of words roll over her and wishing she could attend the regular Lutheran Church services where everyone spoke English.
     Far worse, however, were the Estonian Bible classes forced on her. It had been humiliating, cramped around Pastor Reinaruu’s dining room table with the other Estonian kids. None of them had wanted to be there either except for the Paanksepp brothers, whose perfect grammar and earnestness she’d secretly mocked. This sense of humiliation and pettiness were part of a larger internal battle, a battle which pitted her need to erase the stigma of her DP roots (what better way than refusing to submit to her family’s desire to keep alive their cultural heritage?) against her conscience, which shamed her for her disloyalty and self-consciousness. The result was a stubborn stalemate, punctuated by temporary flare-ups and uncomfortable truces, a stalemate replicated in the external world throughout her adolescence in her daily interactions with her mother.
     But that was another lifetime. She’d shed all that nonsense when she escaped to college. Well, most of it. And look at her now! Reinvented, reborn, lifted to new possibilities by the energy of the city. Progress.
     A thirty-something woman swept by in a mink coat, her clacking heels announcing to those she jostled that important places and people awaited her. Two nuns bustled past (oh no—black robes!), trailed by a ribbon of schoolgirls dressed in plaid uniforms, their gangling legs in sturdy shoes striving to keep up with their minders. An elderly man shuffled up to her, pulling off a wooly cap and holding it in front of her. He reeked of alcohol and his shoes were bundled in rags. She jumped to her feet and realized he wasn’t really old, just toothless and beaten down by the devil knows what. She opened her purse and doled out a quarter, hoping that was enough. As he bowed away mumbling, she spotted a bright red coat heading in her direction.
     “Kitty!” she yelled, waving her arms and breaking into a run.
     They charged into each other’s arms and shrieked and hugged as if months, not days, had passed since they’d last seen each other. Kitty’s cold cheeks brushed against hers and she gave off a wintry scent of clean wool and cinnamon gum.
     “I’ve missed you, Mars!”
     “Me too!”
     “You look great!”
     “You too. You have bangs!”
     “You like?”
     “I love them! You look more, more…I don’t know…je ne sais quoi? Older, more sophisticated. And is that a new coat?”
     Kitty twirled slowly to show off the coat. “Red because I’m sick of practical colors; the duffle cut, to placate my folks since it’ll stay in style and keep me warm for the next hundred years. It’s an early Christmas present. My big one.”
     “It’s perfect on you, especially with the bangs.”
     “Thanks.” Kitty hugged Marrett again, then looked around. “Hey, where is everybody? It’s eleven o’clock.”
     “Well, you arrived on the dot. Caro will come any minute, she’s pretty punctual, and Delilah…,”she gestured “who knows?” with her hands.
     “Will be late as usual,” Kitty finished.
     They burst out laughing and began collecting Kitty’s stuff only to be startled by an ear-splitting whistle, the kind made by sticking two fingers in your mouth and blowing hard, the kind guys used when eyeing hot girls or cheering at baseball games, the kind most girls didn’t know how to do, except for one certain female. Heeding a second blast to their sound systems, they spun to attention and surveyed the waiting room.
     “Girls, over here! Yoo hoo! Over here!”
     There was Delilah, her face partially hidden by a pair of over-sized sunglasses, strolling through the milling crowd and tossing out smiles as if she were John D. Rockefeller himself bestowing shiny dimes to the poor. Her coat was casually flung over her shoulders and swayed as she walked. A handbag was anchored around the crook of her elbow and her arms were laden with an enormous bouquet of flowers.
     Weaving a few paces behind her and gripping a canvas bag in each hand was a tall, slim young man with horn-rimmed glasses and camera equipment dangling from his neck. He was followed by a dark-skinned porter pushing a trolley-load of luggage.
     “Coming through, watch your step, watch your step, coming through.”  The red cap pitched his warning in a deep, baritone voice, letting each syllable hang in the air with an authoritarian clarity that Marrett had heard only in the movies.
     “Girls, we’ve got company!” Delilah halted in mid-procession as Kitty and Marrett rushed to greet her.
     “Well, look at you two!” Delilah beamed. “A sight for sore eyes, indeed.” She handed the long stemmed red roses to the young man, flung her arms out, and said, “Now let me give you a proper hello.”
     
     After the porter had been tipped by the tall skinny guy—five dollars, one for each bag—who handed the flowers back to Delilah while he fished out his wallet—and the luggage sorted out, Delilah began the introductions. “Hope you don’t mind too much, but I had to drag this one along at the last minute. Poor soul’s been holed up all weekend with only some ridiculous essay to keep him company. Someone had to rescue him from rewriting it for the umpteenth time or he’d go totally blind. So here we are. Anyway, we’re stuck with him for drinks. Then he’s catching his train and we’re on our own. Kitty, Marrett, I’d like you to meet Stevie Davis—dear friend, neighbor, and my former companion in crime. Notice I said former, so don’t expect anything naughty from him…” She let her eyes rove over the colorful array in her arms, before adding, “Except maybe flowers.”
     So, thought Marrett, this was Delilah’s mystery man from Princeton, the one who wrote Delilah all those letters and kept her tied up on the telephone for hours. And who bought her the flowers. What was that about? Nice name, nice face, although he looked more like a Stephen than a Steve, and nothing like a Stevie. She endured the stilted chit chat, which always seemed to precede a real conversation: “Hello.” “Nice to meet you, Kitty”  “Nice to meet you too. Gosh, what a pleasant surprise!” “Likewise. And you must be Marrett.” “Yes. Nice to meet you, Stevie.” “Call me Steve.” “Right, Steve.” “So, you live in Red Bank, right?” She nodded.
     While Delilah was admiring Kitty’s coat, Steve adjusted the straps of his camera case, which had become entwined in his long, woolen scarf and asked, “And you’re majoring in history, right?”
     “Right,” Marrett nodded again.
     “Me too.”
     He maneuvered the camera case to one side and stepped closer. “You know, you’ve got top quality men in your history department—Hedges, Bridenbaugh. In fact, the paper I was slaving over was how Hedges’ argument on the economic foundations of our social structure and political institutions beginning with the writing of the Constitution can be expanded… well, never mind, this isn’t exactly the place to, but…”
     “That’s okay. I’m planning to take Professor Hedges’ class next year.”
     “Lucky you! I’m envious. The man’s a living legend. Is the rumor true that he’s more than a bit tyrannical in his pedagogical methods? Or is that an urban myth?”
     “If you’re referring to his never having given any student an ‘A,’ then it’s false. On the other hand, everything else you’ve heard about his impossible-to-live-up-to standards is true, including shutting the double doors of the lecture hall on a student who arrived a second after the last bell rang. Unfortunately, the student’s tie got stuck between the two doors and Hedges left him trapped outside the door for the entire period.”
     “Make sure not to wear a tie and you’ll do just fine.” She detected an ironic twinkle behind those glasses. Hallelujah, Steve was interesting.
     “And then what? After graduation, I mean. Law school?”
     “Why…yes.”
     “Me too. My dad’s a lawyer, so in my case it’s in the genes.”
     Marrett felt dazed by the speed of everything unfolding before her.
     And a little light headed. She’d only had a bagel for breakfast. Her feet were killing her, and she needed to use the restroom. Should she find one now or wait for Caroline?
     Delilah said she needed coffee—pronto—and Kitty, the New York Times. Steve offered to get both, but Delilah said, no thanks sweetie, she and Kitty needed to stretch their legs anyway and powder their noses.
     “Your job, my dear man, is to keep Marrett entertained until we get back, and hers, to be on the lookout for Caroline.”
     “Hey, I think I see her! “ Kitty said.
     “Where?” Delilah asked.
     “There, standing by the archway,” pointed Kitty. “You can spot that hair anywhere. Oh good, she’s looking our way. Wave.”
     “You’re right, that’s our Caro.” Delilah raised her bouquet over her head and swung it back and forth like a flag.
     Marrett saw her too and waved. “But where’s her luggage?”
     “And who’s with her?” Kitty had taken a few steps forward.
     “I don’t see anyone with her and these new sunglasses have a stronger prescription than my last ones,” Delilah said.
     “Over there. Look, they’re turning into that concourse. Two guys… Oh, now they’ve disappeared.”
     “Probably some losers trying to pick her up,” said Delilah.
     “Or asking for directions like normal people,” said Kitty.
     When Caro joined them, looking ever so Greenwich Village in a black belted suede jacket and knee high black boots, a third round of le groupe hugging and oohing and aahing and talking at the same time ensued, although Caro appeared for the briefest of seconds to be discombobulated as she politely shook hands with Steve. Marrett heard her stomach growl and wondered if anyone else did. She was anxious to get going—to the Oyster Bar like Delilah promised. In a few minutes she’d actually be sitting in that famous landmark she’d only read about. Score another first for her. Her day couldn’t get any better.
     “I’m starved. Where’s your stuff?” she asked.
     “My stuff? Oh, it’s coming.” Caro made an airy gesture with one arm in no particular direction. But her naturally pale complexion went a shade whiter; a nervous, almost apologetic, half-smile played around her lips. “Look, this is really awkward…I have to confess, I’ve got a surprise. And none of you are going to like it, especially Mars.  I ‘m really, really sorry, but it’s not my fault.”
     Then the whole story tumbled out in one long, breathless monologue: how she was scrambling out of her cab which was double parked in front of the station (“it was a zoo out there”), dropping her glove, literally bumping heads with a guy who was stooping down at the curb to pick it up at the same time as she, her confusion when the guy morphed into—“of all people”—Jack, his initial confusion, his evident delight at finding out that they (“le groupe”)were all inside, his calling out “Hey, look who I’ve found” to Hunter, Hunter looking all prepped out and giving her a bear hug, evidently Jack and Hunter had partied together in New York last night, their insisting on helping with her luggage (“they’re even checking it in a locker now, can you believe?”), and the coup de grace—their insisting on treating them all to lunch at the Oyster Bar while they made their way into the station (“it took forever”).
     After Caro finished talking, it seemed that each one of them was holding their breath, waiting for someone else to be the first to speak. How was it scientifically possible to hear silence in Grand Central Station on the Sunday after Thanksgiving when thousands of voices were raised at once? When Caro had mentioned Hunter, Marrett felt as if some invisible instrument had split her ribcage and pried out a piece of her heart, leaving behind an aching emptiness. She stared at the people around her, at the rotunda above, but she only recognized the silence.
     “Somebody say something, please,” Caro begged. “I know I screwed up. I’m so sorry, but I was ambushed. Don’t kill me!”
     “We’re too happy to see you to kill you.” Kitty gave Caro a reassuring smile, then squeezed Marrett’s hand. “We understand, they put you on the spot.”
     But Marrett had seen Kitty exchanging glances with Delilah ever since Hunter’s name slipped into the recitation.
     “They offered to pay. At least that part’s good, right?”
     “Good? It’s great! Free food and booze,” Delilah recovered fast. Turning to Steve, she said in her most dulcet-like tones, “Don’t pay any attention to us, sweetie, we’re over-reacting because originally we’d promised ourselves a girls-only lunch. And promise me you’ll come too. The more, the merrier. I know I said just a quick drink, but this will be such fun. Promise? Oh, goody!”
     However, when Jack and Hunter came into view, Delilah lost her playful edge, blanched, and said, “I need a cigarette, pronto.” She then thrust the roses at Marrett, murmuring, “hold these for me,” and linked arms with her in a proprietary manner.
     Marrett felt her cheeks burning, her stomach roiling. She thought she might vomit. In a jolt of panic, she passed the flowers on to Caro and raced to the restrooms.
     She heard Caro calling, “Marrett, wait! I’m coming too!”

     To an outsider the next half hour might have sounded like an off-key Bartok fugue, a conversational composition of different voices winding and rewinding, each with their own melody that didn’t quite harmonize with the competing counterparts. To Marrett, unable to find a comfortable pitch or feign enthusiasm, it seemed interminable. And a prelude—dear God!—of worse to come. She suffered through another round of fatuous introductions, grateful for the fact that she’d had to reappear with the damn flowers and thus was spared from having to shake hands with Hunter or get too near him, although her eyes couldn’t avoid the familiar tweed of his Chesterfield coat or how his hair had grown a little too long, the edges looping around his ears. Still, she was not spared the charade that ensued:

     Jack: “Lord love a lady, Marrett. Those roses are mighty beautiful.”
     Marrett: All-purpose smile.
     Hunter: “Yeah. You look like a homecoming queen.” Smirk.
     Marrett: Blank face, black thoughts.
     Jack: “Or a movie star.”
     Delilah: “They’re from Stevie. Wasn’t that sweet of him, giving them to Mars?”
     Steve: Eyes swivel to Delilah.
     Marrett: “They’re not mine. They’re Delilah’s.”
     Delilah: “Don’t be so coy, Mars. They really do belong to her, don’t they, Stevie? You boys are embarrassing her with all your talk of homecoming queens and movie stars.”
     Steve: Eyes swivel to Marrett.
     Hunter: “Roses, huh…so does that mean that you two..?”
     Marrett: “No…”
     Delilah: “Are getting acquainted, is the phrase I believe, and you, Hunter, are getting too nosy for your own good.”
     Marrett: “She’s kidding. We hardly know each other.” More black thoughts while attempting to deposit flowers into Delilah’s arms.
     Delilah: Arms firmly locked into elbows and thus immune to proffered bouquet. 
     Steve: “I hope not. Not after our delightful time with Hedges.”
     Delilah: Victorious grin. “See?”
     Jack: “Hedges? Are you two into gardening?”
     Kitty: “No, they’re into history. But my dad’s into gardening. Best landscaper in Westchester County.”
     Caro: “Here, give them to me, Mars. I’ll carry them for you.”
     Marrett: “You’re all crazy.”
     Steve: “Only some of us.”
     Jack: “Thank god for that. Let’s eat!”
     Delilah: “To the Oyster Bar and more craziness!”
     Hunter: “Whose flowers…?  Hey, Delilah, wait up! …Is your Princeton buddy really dating...”

     That last, unfinished atonal flourish should have heartened Marrett. It didn’t. Too little, too late. It wasn’t jealousy, just his stupid ego talking. Or maybe he was planning to hit on Delilah and making sure the field was clear. But he wouldn’t do that with Jack there, would he? Of course, it would be just like him if he did. But Jack was pinned, so he was out of the picture as far as Hunter knew. Or was he? She was beginning to sound as crazy as the rest of them. Well, they had only acted like crazies, using the flowers as a silly diversionary tactic to ease any awkwardness she might feel in the presence of Hunter. Pretending that she and Steve…Oh, it was all too mortifying!
     Salvaging what was left of her pride meant blinking back the onset of fresh tears and assuming a cloak of frosty self-protection. Detach, distance yourself, she told herself.
     She didn’t want to join them, but what choice did she have?
     She’d asked the same question earlier when she’d locked her self in a cubicle—to which she’d gained access by sliding a dime in a metal coin box—in the public restroom with Caro pressed against the door, pleading with her. Somehow she’d rallied, splashed cold water over her face and defused Caro’s concerns by lying she’d been sick because she hadn’t eaten breakfast, nothing to do with Hunter, she hardly thought about him, she just needed to get some food, she’d be fine and dandy, honest. She’d studied herself in the mirror: a small town girl with a hollow expression and Nordic coloring in an ordinary camel hair coat like thousands of others. The luster from the day had been washed away.
     Now this small town girl was going to play her only option— put on an invisible tiara and live up to her ice princess moniker. Oh yes, she’d laughed with le groupe when they first told her that’s what they called her in the fraternities, but it’d cut deep, although she’d never let on; even some of the Pembrokers called her that, thinking it was a compliment. Better an ice princess than a DP. Detach, distance, hold your head high, she silently repeated until she caught herself humming the refrain from an old Kingston Trio song, “with her head tucked underneath her arm.” She’d forgotten the rest of the lyrics. Was the song about Anne Boleyn or some other tragic figure? How in the world had they managed to infuse such lively humor into such a ghastly image?
     Intent on getting to the Oyster Bar without losing her own head, she took no notice of the other diners or her surroundings. If she’d taken a pop quiz asking her to describe one architectural feature of the restaurant, she’d have flunked. She found herself seated between Steve and Kitty, with Steve on her right, assigned to the head of the table. On the other side of Kitty sat Jack, then Caro directly opposite Steve at the other end. Across from her was Delilah, tucked between Steve and Hunter, who was thankfully on a diagonal from her and therefore not in her direct line of vision.
     After the first round of Bloody Marys was served, Hunter and Jack took on the job of ordering food for the entire table. Good, thought Marrett, not wanting to show her ignorance. Who knew the difference between a blue point oyster and those other names printed under the raw bar heading of the menu anyway? A few hefty sips of her extra spicy Bloody Mary and she relaxed enough to be drawn into a conversation with Steve. It started out earnestly enough on his part; he was talking about his paper again, bringing up the constitutional issues he’d addressed, but by the third time Hedges’ name was mentioned, she had to bite her lips to keep from grinning. She caught a spark in his eyes which, now that she was close enough to see through his lenses, were a very nice shade of light green, similar in color to the celery stalk he was twirling in his glass.
     She took a chance and mimicked Jack. “Hedges? Are you two into gardening?”
     “No, but Kitty’s father is,” he deadpanned.
     They burst into spontaneous laughter. They stopped when they noticed that everyone else was staring at them. They glanced at each other and roared again.
     Caro shouted from her end. “You guys, fill us in on the joke.”
     “Sorry, private joke. You had to be there,” Steve said, straightening his face and glasses at the same time.
     Marrett leaned into him, cupped her hand over her mouth, and whispered, “They were there,” and Steve resumed laughing.
     Jack, who’d been talking with Kitty, yelled, “Okay. That’s enough hard stuff for those two. When our waiter comes back, I’m ordering Virgin Marys for Marrett and Steve.”
     “Virgins for the virgins,” Hunter said, raising his glass.
     Caro rolled her eyes in disdain, while Kitty squeezed Marrett’s knee.
     Delilah blew a smoke ring at him and said, “You’ll never know, that’s for sure.”
     Jack spoke softly, dragging out the vowels. “Hunter, I do believe you owe the ladies at this table an apology for your lapse into bad manners and your poor taste in off-color jokes.”
     Marrett couldn’t decide whether Jack deliberately piled on the southern drawl to lessen the sting of his reprimand or whether underneath his preppy-jock demeanor resided a genuine, old-fashioned gentleman. She forced herself to look in Hunter’s direction and saw that his face had turned crimson. Despite promising herself that no matter what happened this afternoon, she could look anywhere—at the opening between his V neck sweater and his button-down shirt, at the top of his head, at his ears which lay so flat against his head, at his stupid loafers which he wore without socks even on a cold day like this—but not in his eyes.
     Hunter, oblivious to her private pledge, gazed straight at her and said, “Marrett, I’m sorry. I had no right to say what I did. It was a stupid joke. Girls, my deepest apologies. And Steve, no hard feelings, I hope.”
     Thus for the sake of politeness, she acknowledged his apology and dismissed it with an airy benevolence befitting an ice princess. “Apology accepted. You have a fine friend in Jack.” For just the briefest of moments their eyes met, and she felt her tiara slipping because she could hear her heart beating.
     Any further slippage was stemmed by the intervention of the waiters, who appeared fortuitously—improbable, but welcome, culinary ambassadors of some dues ex machina hidden in the bowels of the kitchen. They carried gigantic platters of raw oysters on the half shell, silver-plated goblets of pinkish-coral shrimp perched atop shaved ice, crystal ramekins with a selection of cocktail sauces, each vessel partnered with a tiny spoon, and steaming bowls of Manhattan clam chowder that gave off a mouth-watering aroma. They fell on the feast with unabashed pleasure, except for Marrett. She remembered eating the food, but not tasting it.
     Her mind was replaying the virgin comment, spinning out alternative responses she could have made, then fast forwarding to how to interpret the comment. Was it a harmless witticism that turned awkward because they’d dated? Or was it meant to needle her? Remind her of what happened or didn’t happen between them?
     It seemed she’d relived the last time they were together a million times already. Snuggling on the sofa in the frat lounge, she’d let him lead her upstairs to his room where their kissing had intensified into petting until…until the part that made her cringe every time she thought of it. How he’d removed her blouse without her protesting, how he’d loosened his belt, how he’d placed her hand there, how he’d told her she was beautiful and wanted her, how she’d said nothing because she’d never let any boy get this far. But when he’d begun to unfasten his trousers, she’d rolled away and sat up. “I can’t,” was all she’d said, thinking how pathetic she must look with her arms crossed over her white, cotton bra. He’d shrugged it off with a wry smile, “Okay. Get dressed Kiddo, I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want to do.” He’d planted a gentle kiss on her nose before they went downstairs. “Call you soon. Sleep tight,” he’d whispered as he tousled her hair on the steps in front of Metcalf.
     And then no word until she saw him practically kissing that girl in the Blue Room. Now she was back to speculating whether he stopped seeing her because she wouldn’t sleep with him or whether he’d have stopped seeing her even if she’d slept with him. If the former, he was a shallow jerk; if the latter, well, he’d still be a shallow jerk. Either case, she’d done the right thing. So why did it hurt?
     The voices around the table grew louder as their appetites diminished. More drinks were ordered. In a fog of her own making, Marrett let most of the chatter drift over her. But she did recall a few things which she’d ponder over on the train ride home and in the weeks ahead: Steve maintaining a tolerant, amused attitude while Delilah flirted with Jack and Jack maintaining a similar pose when she flirted with Steve, Hunter flirting openly with all the girls, Kitty and Jack bending their heads together and talking in hushed tones when Delilah was in the ladies’ room, Caro arguing politics with all the men, Jack and Steve squaring off over the fairness of the draft.
     It was the disagreement over the draft that flared into a heated, prolonged argument over the effectiveness and ethics of United States foreign policy, which meandered on long past their coffee cups had been filled and refilled.
     Caro threw the opening salvo. “I think that the premise of the Cold War is a false one. The East/West divide is basically an ideological one, it shouldn’t be geopolitical. It’s ridiculous for the State Department to view every country as being with us or against us.”
     “What about Hungary?” Jack pounced. “We watched while the Soviets sent in their tanks and look what happened to those poor people!”
     “And what about Cuba?” Hunter asked. “You think it’s good for us to have allowed the Soviets to build their missiles pointed ninety miles from us?”
     “Well, I don’t think it was okay for our government to attempt to invade a tiny country just because we didn’t like their politics or their friends.” Caro answered, waving her cigarette holder a few millimeters from his face.
     “Granted the Bay of Pigs was a huge fiasco, but still…” Steve said.
     “Politics! Castro’s a damned commie, just like his friend Khrushchev!” Hunter pushed back his chair.
     “That’s beside the point, Hunter. Our government applauded your ‘damn commie’ when he ousted Battista. Remember? And Steve, for your information, the Bay of Pigs was more than a fiasco. It was an illegal operation conducted by a clandestine wing of a clandestine organization, which…”
     “But that’s precisely the point, Caro,” interrupted Hunter. “We’ve learned from our past dealings with the Soviet Union that once there’s a Communist government established anywhere, they’re going to tighten their stranglehold on it until it does their bidding. We’ve got to stop such aggression. Any way we can. We have no choice. Look what we allowed to happen in Germany!”
     “And Poland and Czechoslovakia and…,” Delilah said.
     “And the Baltics,” added Marrett.
     “Mars, I’m not talking about what happened to Eastern Europe after World War II. You know how I feel about that. I’m not whitewashing that. But it happened. I’m talking about now. Do we behave like Nazies or do we allow third world countries struggling for their independence to choose their own forms of government?”
     “If you mean do we squash all nationalist movements that won’t fit into our ideological framework, then we have to tread judiciously, keeping in mind, first and foremost, our national interest,” said Steve.
     Marrettt hadn’t noticed Steve smoking before and assumed he was a non smoker, but he reached for Delilah’s box of Benson and Hedges and lit up.
     “Aha,” said Jack. “Leave it to the Princetonian to get to the heart of the matter. Before we all gang up on Caro, we’ve got to address what is meant by our national interest.”
     “And also who defines our national interest, an endless balancing act between the three branches of our government.” Steve interjected, puffing away on his cigarette. Marrett could tell he was in his element.
     “Right. Leave that aside for a sec, and answer this: is an effective foreign policy one that deems its first priority to be one that protects the physical well being of its people by making sure its geographical borders remain safe?” Jack asked. “If so, then what means should we employ to ensure that?”
     “Jacko, don’t get into that means justify the ends argument. That’s what this young lady wants,” Hunter said, rapping his teaspoon against Caro’s empty coffee cup.
     Kitty, who’d been quiet until now, turned to Jack. “But Jack, that’s the slippery slope of our Cold War dilemma.”
     “Yeah, when do we use force to protect ourselves? When do we fight and when do we walk away?” Hunter said.
     “That’s a little too simplistic. First we talk, begin serious negotiations, then search for possible military options if peaceful diplomacy doesn’t work.” Steve was working on his second cigarette.
     “Peaceful diplomacy hasn’t exactly worked with the Communists, as we’ve all seen, has it?”  Hunter raised voice was tinged with disgust.
     “Not so far,” Jack agreed.
     “Oh, you all sound like a bunch of knee jerk Cold War warriors!” Caro bunched her napkin into a ball and threw it in the middle of the table.
     “If you mean will I fight for this country, you bet I will!” Hunter almost shouted.
     “Same here,” said Jack in a softer voice.
     “Me too,” said Steve.
     Ever the peacemaker, Kitty stood up. “Perhaps we could continue this, uh, discussion another time. I don’t know about you guys, but we girls have a train to catch. Thank you Jack, and thank you Hunter for this delicious meal.” She showered them with a broad smile.
     As they were filing out of the restaurant, a busboy, dodging among the tables with a tray of empty glasses, bumped into Hunter, who was shoved against Marrett. She tripped and stumbled forward. “Sorry,” he said, reaching out to steady her.
     She could smell sandalwood soap and cigarettes as he pulled her to him. She felt the sweet roughness of his coat sleeve when he brushed back a strand of hair from her face. His eyes skimmed across her face. He leaned forward, tilting his head as if to whisper in her ear. She turned her head and slipped out of his grasp and left the Oyster Bar without a backward glance.