M

y daughter leaves home for college
tomorrow. She's only sixteen. Sharon is
sure she's ready; I, however, am not.
Down the hall, I sidestep cardboard
boxes full of her clothing and books. From
behind her closed door comes the throb-
bing beat of a Reggae record; the drum's
rhythms drown out the angry words of the
song. I pass her room and hear her crying.,
Her closed door often barricaded me from
her during the past two years, but it's
different lately. I knock gently, then enter
her room.
Sharon lies face down on her bed, sob-
bing into her pillow. The "El Salvador
Libre" and "Hell No — We Won't Go"
posters that plastered her walls now pro-
trude from baskets on the floor; her walls
are bare, like an impersonal motel.
Photographs of the boyfriend she broke
up with are strewn beside her. Last sum-
mer's struggles over this man made me so
angry, I never wanted to meet him or even
see his picture. Not only is he a twenty-
three-year-old unemployed dancer from
New York, but she defied me repeatedly
because of him.
I sit beside her and she shifts her body
to make room for me. Although she no
longer screams "leave me alone" or "get
out," I still feel guarded, not trusting the
absence of her hostility yet.
I rub het back, making circular motions
with my palms on the soft purple of her T-
shirt. Slowly I slide my hands to the top
of her shoulders and massage the tight
muscles of her neck; they soften under my
touch. Her sobs diminish; I sit awkwardely
in the silence.
"I miss him, Mom," Sharon cries.
"I know you do," I manage with dif-
ficulty.
Hallelujah, I want to shout! He will stay
in New York, ending her fantasy of their
living together. Relief is an understate-
ment for what I feel. She is proceeding
with her life in a reasonable way. Though
I say none of this aloud, Sharon knows
what I think.
"I miss him holding me...," she cries,
"...telling me I'm beautiful."
The knot in my stomach twists a notch.
"You are a lovely young woman," I tell
her. Did I not tell her this enough when she
was small?
As I rub her back, her weeping eases:
She hands me a photograph and I see him
for the first time: a smiling, bare-chested
black man wearing green leotards, kicking
a thick-muscled leg high above the ground.
His broad shoulders look powerful; his
sweaty chest is matted with hair.
I can look at his picture — now that he
gone from her plans, now that she is leav-
ing home not for him but for college.

S

eptember 1985 . . . I am leaving the
Phoenix airport for Stanford. Three
matching pieces of lime-green luggage sit

on the floor by the ticket counter, gradua-
tion presents from my parents.
I don't really know why I am going to
Stanford, except that it is a "good" college
and my cousin went there. A "good" girl,
West Phoenix High's valedictorian, of
course should go to a good college.
Buttoning the jacket of my black tweed
suit, I fumble with the velvet collar. I open
my patent leather purse to search for my
ticket, my fingers clumsy in white cotton
gloves. My patent leather heels slip on the
slick airport floor. I feel awkward in this
garb, but the outfit is what one should
wear on a plane , going to college. My
mother told me so; she chose the suit.
My mother, Claire, never went away to
school. In Los Angeles during the Depres-
sion, she stopped after one term at city col-
lege, needing to work. My mother is proud
of me: I made almost straight-A 's and I'm
going to Stanford.

Her brown leather boots sink into the
soggy pine needles that cover the ground.
New beige jodphurs are tucked into the
boots; her small firm breasts protrude
beneath her soft brown sweater. She
spreads her legs apart, places her hands
jauntily on her hips, and tilts her head to
one side. Her brown eyes open wide; her
smile reaches nearly to them.
Finally they are alone. It is all right now.
The rabbi has married them officially in
their parents' presence, and both sets of
parents know they have been secretly mar-
ried for four months already. It is the
Great Depression; they married secretly,
continuing to live with their respective
parents, because they hadn't enough
money to start a separate household. Now
the sneaking can stop; they can take a real
honeymoon, be properly together.
Claire fingers her wedding ring: the
delicate band has tiny diamonds set in a

CZ

Leaving

A lot of life is devoted to leave-takings, but
when a daughter goes away to college,
many ties are wrenched free. A short story.

ANN DAVIDSON

Special to The Jewish News

"Yes, I'll call when °I get there," I say
as the airline official tickets my luggage.
"I'll write as soon as I can."
Hurriedly kissing my parents goodbye,
I run across the asphalt towards the
waiting plane. Wind from the propeller
blows my skirt against the nylons on my
legs. The engine whines. Turning, I see my
mother wipe her eyes. She waves. Her
mouth moves, but I cannot hear what she
is saying. I wave back and climb up the
metal steps into the plane.

D

ecember 1933 . . . Claire has just ar-
rived at Lake Arrowhead on her honey-
moon. She jumps out of the Pontiac she and
Max borrowed for three days, smelling the
pungent scent of wet pine trees. She poses
before the Pontiac's big rounded fender
while Max focuses the camera, grinning.

single row. Max saved for that ring for
months from his $20-a-week job as a book-
keeper. Inside, the engraved inscription
reads, "To Claire, with Love from Max —
1933."
Eyeing the small cabin they have rented,
Claire smiles. Ahead lie three precious
days of living alone with Max, before they
return to spend the next five years with
her parents, in her mother, Frances's
house.

I

n 1903, France (only they called her
Feige then) folds her ankle-length woolen
dress and lays it over her high-button
shoes in the worn trunk. Her 18-year-old-
face is smooth-skinned, her almond-shaped
eyes solemn and her mouth set in a serious
line.
Across the hall, her father paces back

C)

44

Friday, August 29, 1986

THE DETROIT JEWISH NEWS