Wednesday, June 11, 2003
FEAR GETS THE BEST OF ME, Sex and Lies continued... Sunday, June 01, 2003
We meet for dinner, Igo's on Mass.Ave. I'm struck by his vulnerability. He is sheepish. We talk for hours. He doesn't want to pressure me. (Just the fact that I'm there, I knew what was coming). He loves me.
What next? At least we make another date. This goes on. He shows me his apartment. There is nothing in it, some clothes, a mattress on the floor. He says he has to go back to his house in Hanover Mass. to pick up a few things. He asks if I want to go. The wife and kids are gone for the weekend. My curiosity wins. What did he give up?
We drive for about an hour out of Boston heading south. It is dusk when we pull into the driveway of the house that you always see in your imagination if you are a woman who wants a man, some kids, and a house with a picket fence. It was over 100 years old. Lovingly restored by Pete. With pride he shows me the wide pine floors he sanded and refinished. I feel terrible and wonderful at the same time. He is making me an offering. He's showing me what he is capable of. I start to feel sick. He grabs a few things and we go.
A few days later he calls and asks to meet me at a local park, in the afternoon. It's odd, but I don't ask questions. He is there when I get there. He has two children with him, Jenny and Pete Jr. The girl is about 4 and the boy is 9. They are on the swings. Who am I supposed to be for these children? I have no idea. What is he doing? Another offering. This is what I give for you, not explicit, but implied.
Emotional turmoil. He wants to marry me. The little score card in my brain gets busy. I'm an artist, soon to get out of grad school. How will I survive? Obviously this man loves me. Look what he gave up for me. Other details: Pete was a former marine, a former Olympian (runner in Rome 1960), a Hunter/fisherman extradinaire. If ever the world blows up and goes to hell and there is nothing but a few people, some squirrels to hunt for food, and we are among them, Pete would save us. We would survive. I give up. I give in. O.K. I'll do it. I'll marry you.
IT MUST'VE BEEN LOVE, Sex and Lies continued...
Six months go by. Pete tried calling at all-times of the day and night. I ignored him. After awhile the calls stopped.
I entered my first year of graduate school. Money was really tight. B.U. offered me a graduate teaching assistantship which paid my tuition but I still needed a place to stay. One of my professors set me up as a live-in nanny with Harold Tovish, a sculpture professor, and his artist (also a sculptor) wife, Marianna Pineda. They lived in a huge house in Brookline with a studio to die for. I was thrilled to be there. Occasionally when they had a life model they would invite me to draw with them. My job responsibilities were minimal. Nina at 8 years old was their youngest child and the only kid still at home. I was the baby sitter. They entertained at home. Julia Child, famous Boston chef, TV personality and cookbook author was their good friend. Once I served Julia a meal at a party. I was star struck.
It was 1967-68. The Tovishes were very politically active. They went to Wahington and participated in huge, angry, anti-war marches. Harold filmed the experience, brought it home and showed it to me. He introduced me to political activism. I started participating in student held antiwar rallies. B.U. was a hot bed of political radicalism then. Ray Mungo wrote for the student newspaper and was a student leader. When the campus riots started, B.U. was the first in Boston then it spread to M.I.T., Harvard was the last to jump on the bandwagon.
My painting was going well. Philip Guston was brought in to lecture us grad students. He had just started moving from abstraction back to figurative work. We were the first to see it. Powerful images of Klu Klux Klan type hooded figures, giant heads smoking. Guston was battling his own deamons in those paintings. We all went drinking with him. I know.
One day I get a call. "Hi, how are you?" I recognize the voice. "I've left my wife, I've filed for divorce and I have my own apartment in Boston. I'll understand if you don't want to see me. Can I invite you to have dinner, just dinner?" My mind speeds up to fever pitch. A thousand arguments for and against in 5 seconds. "Yes, O.K. Where should we meet?"
SEX, LIES AND MEETING PETE
The Head of the Charles is a popular college rowing event held in Cambridge every spring. I was at the B.U. boathouse that year to provide moral support for a guy I was dating who rowed for the team. It was a chilly day in April and I was under-dressed. There was a group of older guys a short distance from me. They were drinking something alcoholic in paper cups and not paying much attention to the races. There was a lot of loud bantering and I had the impression 2 of them were trying to attract my attention. They asked if I'd like a drink. One of them was quite attractive,tall,lean,wavy black hair and laughing eyes. Turned out they were sports reporters for the local Boston papers, the Globe and the Herald. The good looking guy was the Sports Information Director and track coach at MIT. His name was Pete. His buddy wrote for the newspapers. There was some tension, a competition seemed to be going on between these two and I think I was the prize. They each tried to make some bet with me about the outcome of the race. Pete had it set-up so no matter what the results were, he would take me out to dinner. That's what happened. I had to go back to my dorm to get a jacket. He agreed to pick me up there later that evening.
I was living in a small dorm, a brownstone in Kenmore Square. It was called "The Honors Dorm". It was supposed to be for girls not only of high academic achievement, but also girls with high moral values and a sense of personal responsibility. Dean Melville actually had me transfered there from the big warehouse dorm on Babcock St. because they felt I was a "disruptive influence" on the other girls. It was a great move. The parietal rules did not apply to us in this dorm. No sign in or sign out. We were on the honor system.
Pete picked me up right on time. I was pretty excited. My dorm mates peeked out from behind the drapes to get a look at him. The older man. He was about 10 years older than me. It was 1967, my senior year, I'd graduate in a few months. We went out to dinner, had a great time and soon I was seeing Pete regularly. He would invite me to go on trips with him when he traveled with the team. We'd stay in motels, always eat out, the sex was pleasant, even interesting at times.
One Saturday I was waiting for Pete to pick me up. The phone rang, it was his buddy from that first day at the boat house. "Hey," he says, "did you know that guy you've been seeing has 2 kids, a wife, and a house in the suburbs?". I sucked in my breath. There had not been a hint about this from Pete. No slipping away while we were together to make sureptitious phone calls to home, no kid stuff in the car, nada. I smiled to myself. That bastard. The bell rang, I opened the door and smiled, got in the car and did not say a word. All during the evening I dropped hints that I knew. I gave him openings to come clean. I wanted him to confess. He avoided the obvious. My blood was rising. We get back to the dorm. We sit in the car. I don't get out. I wait. Silence. Then I explode. "You asshole, you creep, you lying son of a bitch - get out of my life - don't call - I never ever want you to darken my door again!" I slam the car door and don't look back.
The next day, Sunday, there is a delivery for me. A package with a bottle of my favorite wine, a loaf of French bread, some cheese and the Sunday NYT along with a note from him to go on a picnic and "talk it over". I give the wine and cheese to a friend and go off to my room to read the paper.
To be continued...
We meet for dinner, Igo's on Mass.Ave. I'm struck by his vulnerability. He is sheepish. We talk for hours. He doesn't want to pressure me. (Just the fact that I'm there, I knew what was coming). He loves me.
What next? At least we make another date. This goes on. He shows me his apartment. There is nothing in it, some clothes, a mattress on the floor. He says he has to go back to his house in Hanover Mass. to pick up a few things. He asks if I want to go. The wife and kids are gone for the weekend. My curiosity wins. What did he give up?
We drive for about an hour out of Boston heading south. It is dusk when we pull into the driveway of the house that you always see in your imagination if you are a woman who wants a man, some kids, and a house with a picket fence. It was over 100 years old. Lovingly restored by Pete. With pride he shows me the wide pine floors he sanded and refinished. I feel terrible and wonderful at the same time. He is making me an offering. He's showing me what he is capable of. I start to feel sick. He grabs a few things and we go.
A few days later he calls and asks to meet me at a local park, in the afternoon. It's odd, but I don't ask questions. He is there when I get there. He has two children with him, Jenny and Pete Jr. The girl is about 4 and the boy is 9. They are on the swings. Who am I supposed to be for these children? I have no idea. What is he doing? Another offering. This is what I give for you, not explicit, but implied.
Emotional turmoil. He wants to marry me. The little score card in my brain gets busy. I'm an artist, soon to get out of grad school. How will I survive? Obviously this man loves me. Look what he gave up for me. Other details: Pete was a former marine, a former Olympian (runner in Rome 1960), a Hunter/fisherman extradinaire. If ever the world blows up and goes to hell and there is nothing but a few people, some squirrels to hunt for food, and we are among them, Pete would save us. We would survive. I give up. I give in. O.K. I'll do it. I'll marry you.
IT MUST'VE BEEN LOVE, Sex and Lies continued...
Six months go by. Pete tried calling at all-times of the day and night. I ignored him. After awhile the calls stopped.
I entered my first year of graduate school. Money was really tight. B.U. offered me a graduate teaching assistantship which paid my tuition but I still needed a place to stay. One of my professors set me up as a live-in nanny with Harold Tovish, a sculpture professor, and his artist (also a sculptor) wife, Marianna Pineda. They lived in a huge house in Brookline with a studio to die for. I was thrilled to be there. Occasionally when they had a life model they would invite me to draw with them. My job responsibilities were minimal. Nina at 8 years old was their youngest child and the only kid still at home. I was the baby sitter. They entertained at home. Julia Child, famous Boston chef, TV personality and cookbook author was their good friend. Once I served Julia a meal at a party. I was star struck.
It was 1967-68. The Tovishes were very politically active. They went to Wahington and participated in huge, angry, anti-war marches. Harold filmed the experience, brought it home and showed it to me. He introduced me to political activism. I started participating in student held antiwar rallies. B.U. was a hot bed of political radicalism then. Ray Mungo wrote for the student newspaper and was a student leader. When the campus riots started, B.U. was the first in Boston then it spread to M.I.T., Harvard was the last to jump on the bandwagon.
My painting was going well. Philip Guston was brought in to lecture us grad students. He had just started moving from abstraction back to figurative work. We were the first to see it. Powerful images of Klu Klux Klan type hooded figures, giant heads smoking. Guston was battling his own deamons in those paintings. We all went drinking with him. I know.
One day I get a call. "Hi, how are you?" I recognize the voice. "I've left my wife, I've filed for divorce and I have my own apartment in Boston. I'll understand if you don't want to see me. Can I invite you to have dinner, just dinner?" My mind speeds up to fever pitch. A thousand arguments for and against in 5 seconds. "Yes, O.K. Where should we meet?"
SEX, LIES AND MEETING PETE
The Head of the Charles is a popular college rowing event held in Cambridge every spring. I was at the B.U. boathouse that year to provide moral support for a guy I was dating who rowed for the team. It was a chilly day in April and I was under-dressed. There was a group of older guys a short distance from me. They were drinking something alcoholic in paper cups and not paying much attention to the races. There was a lot of loud bantering and I had the impression 2 of them were trying to attract my attention. They asked if I'd like a drink. One of them was quite attractive,tall,lean,wavy black hair and laughing eyes. Turned out they were sports reporters for the local Boston papers, the Globe and the Herald. The good looking guy was the Sports Information Director and track coach at MIT. His name was Pete. His buddy wrote for the newspapers. There was some tension, a competition seemed to be going on between these two and I think I was the prize. They each tried to make some bet with me about the outcome of the race. Pete had it set-up so no matter what the results were, he would take me out to dinner. That's what happened. I had to go back to my dorm to get a jacket. He agreed to pick me up there later that evening.
I was living in a small dorm, a brownstone in Kenmore Square. It was called "The Honors Dorm". It was supposed to be for girls not only of high academic achievement, but also girls with high moral values and a sense of personal responsibility. Dean Melville actually had me transfered there from the big warehouse dorm on Babcock St. because they felt I was a "disruptive influence" on the other girls. It was a great move. The parietal rules did not apply to us in this dorm. No sign in or sign out. We were on the honor system.
Pete picked me up right on time. I was pretty excited. My dorm mates peeked out from behind the drapes to get a look at him. The older man. He was about 10 years older than me. It was 1967, my senior year, I'd graduate in a few months. We went out to dinner, had a great time and soon I was seeing Pete regularly. He would invite me to go on trips with him when he traveled with the team. We'd stay in motels, always eat out, the sex was pleasant, even interesting at times.
One Saturday I was waiting for Pete to pick me up. The phone rang, it was his buddy from that first day at the boat house. "Hey," he says, "did you know that guy you've been seeing has 2 kids, a wife, and a house in the suburbs?". I sucked in my breath. There had not been a hint about this from Pete. No slipping away while we were together to make sureptitious phone calls to home, no kid stuff in the car, nada. I smiled to myself. That bastard. The bell rang, I opened the door and smiled, got in the car and did not say a word. All during the evening I dropped hints that I knew. I gave him openings to come clean. I wanted him to confess. He avoided the obvious. My blood was rising. We get back to the dorm. We sit in the car. I don't get out. I wait. Silence. Then I explode. "You asshole, you creep, you lying son of a bitch - get out of my life - don't call - I never ever want you to darken my door again!" I slam the car door and don't look back.
The next day, Sunday, there is a delivery for me. A package with a bottle of my favorite wine, a loaf of French bread, some cheese and the Sunday NYT along with a note from him to go on a picnic and "talk it over". I give the wine and cheese to a friend and go off to my room to read the paper.
To be continued...
